ilii    HHI!: 


BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 

•> 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


The  God  of  His  Fathers 


The 

God  of  His  Fathers 

&P  Other  Stories 


JACK  LONDON 


New  York 
McCLURE,   PHILLIPS 

fef   COMPANY 

Mcmi 


Copyright,  igoi,  by 
MCCLURE,  PHILLIPS  Gf  Co. 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS     .     JOHN  WILSON 
AND     SON    .      CAMBRIDGE,    U.  S.  A. 


TO 

THE    DAUGHTERS    OF    THE    WOLF 
WHO    HAVE    BRED    AND    SUCKLED    A    RACE    OF    MEN 


HESE  tales  have  appeared  in  "  McClure's"  "Ains- 
lee's  "  "  Outing,"  the  "  Overland  Monthly"  the 
"  the  "  National"  and  the  San  Francisco  "Exam- 
iner." To  the  kindness  of  the  various  editors  is  due  their 
reappearance  in  more  permanent  form. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  GOD  OF  HIS  FATHERS I 

THE  GREAT  INTERROGATION          J 34 

WHICH  MAKE  MEN  REMEMBER     .    ^    .     .     .     .  65 

SIWASH 86 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  GASH       .     •.     — .     •     .     .  114 

JAN,  THE  UNREPENTANT     ...     I     ....  140 

GRIT  OF  WOMEN      .  .  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  156 

WHERE  THE  TRAIL  FORKS 185 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE  AURORA 210 

AT  THE  RAINBOW'S  END 230 

THE  SCORN  OF  WOMEN      . 252 


I 

The  God  of  His  Fathers 

ON  every  hand  stretched  the  forest  prime- 
val,—  the  home  of  noisy  comedy  and 
silent  tragedy.  Here  the  struggle  for 
survival  continued  to  wage  with  all  its  ancient 
brutality.  Briton  and  Russian  were  still  to  over- 
lap in  the  Land  of  the  Rainbow's  End  —  and  this 
was  the  very  heart  of  it  —  nor  had  Yankee  gold 
yet  purchased  its  vast  domain.  The  wolf-pack 
still  clung  to  the  flank  of  the  cariboo-herd,  singling 
out  the  weak  and  the  big  with  calf,  and  pulling 
them  down  as  remorselessly  as  were  it  a  thousand, 
thousand  generations  into  the  past.  The  sparse 
aborigines  still  acknowledged  the  rule  of  their 
chiefs  and  medicine  men,  drove  out  bad  spirits, 
burned  their  witches,  fought  their  neighbors,  and 
ate  their  enemies  with  a  relish  which  spoke  well 

of  their  bellies.      But  it  was  at  the  moment  when 
i  i 


2  The  God  of  His  Fathers 

the  stone  age  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Already, 
over  unknown  trails  and  chartless  wildernesses, 
were  the  harbingers  of  the  steel  arriving,  —  fair- 
faced,  blue-eyed,  indomitable  men,  incarnations 
of  the  unrest  of  their  race.  By  accident  or  de- 
sign, single-handed  and  in  twos  and  threes,  they 
came  from  no  one  knew  whither,  and  fought,  or 
died,  or  passed  on,  no  one  knew  whence.  The 
priests  raged  against  them,  the  chiefs  called  forth 
their  righting  men,  and  stone  clashed  with  steel; 
but  to  little  purpose.  Like  water  seeping  from 
sqme  mighty  reservoir,  they  trickled  through  the 
dark  forests  and  mountain  passes,  threading  the 
highways  in  bark  canoes,  or  with  their  moccasined 
feet  breaking  trail  for  the  wolf-dogs.  They  came 
of  a  great  breed,  and  their  mothers  were  many  ; 
but  the  fur-clad  denizens  of  the  Northland  had  this 
yet  to  learn.  So  many  an  unsung  wanderer  fought 
his  last  and  died  under  the  cold  fire  of  the  aurora, 
as  did  his  brothers  in  burning  sands  and  reeking  jun- 
gles, and  as  they  shall  continue  to  do  till  in  the  ful- 
ness of  time  the  destiny  of  their  race  be  achieved. 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  3 

It  was  near  twelve.  Along  the  northern  hori- 
zon a  rosy  glow,  fading  to  the  west  and  deepen- 
ing to  the  east,  marked  the  unseen  dip  of  the 
midnight  sun.  The  gloaming  and  the  dawn  were 
so  commingled  that  there  was  no  night,  —  simply 
a  wedding  of  day  with  day,  a  scarcely  perceptible 
blending  of  two  circles  of  the  sun.  A  kildee 
timidly  chirped  good-night ;  the  full,  rich  throat 
of  a  robin  proclaimed  good-morrow.  From  an 
island  on  the  breast  of  the  Yukon  a  colony  of  wild 
fowl  voiced  its  interminable  wrongs,  while  a  loon 
laughed  mockingly  back  across  a  still  stretch  of 
river. 

In  the  foreground,  against  the  bank  of  a  lazy 
eddy,  birch-bark  canoes  were  lined  two  and  three 
deep.  Ivory-bladed  spears,  bone-barbed  arrows, 
buckskin-thonged  bows,  and  simple  basket-woven 
traps  bespoke  the  fact  that  in  the  muddy  current 
of  the  river  the  salmon-run  was  on.  In  the  back- 
ground, from  the  tangle  of  skin  tents  and  drying 
frames,  rose  the  voices  of  the  fisher  folk.  Bucks 
skylarked  with  bucks  or  flirted  with  the  maidens, 


4  The  God  of  His  Fathers 

while  the  older  squaws,  shut  out  from  this  by 
virtue  of  having  fulfilled  the  end  of  their  existence 
in  reproduction,  gossiped  as  they  braided  rope 
from  the  green  roots  of  trailing  vines.  At  their 
feet  their  naked  progeny  played  and  squabbled,  or 
rolled  in  the  muck  with  the  tawny  wolf-dogs. 
To  one  side  of  the  encampment,  and  conspicu- 
ously apart  from  it,  stood  a  second  camp  of  two 
tents.  But  it  was  a  white  man's  camp.  If 
nothing  else,  the  choice  of  position  at  least  bore 
convincing  evidence  of  this.  In  case  of  offence, 
it  commanded  the  Indian  quarters  a  hundred  yards 
away;  of  defence,  a  rise  to  the  ground  and  the 
cleared  intervening  space ;  and  last,  of  defeat,  the 
swift  slope  of  a  score  of  yards  to  the  canoes  below. 
From  one  of  the  tents  came  the  petulant  cry  of  a 
sick  child  and  the  crooning  song  of  a  mother.  In 
the  open,  over  the  smouldering  embers  of  a  fire, 
two  men  held  talk. 

"  Eh  ?  I  love  the  church  like  a  good  son. 
Blen !  So  great  a  love  that  my  days  have  been 
spent  in  fleeing  away  from  her,  and  my  nights 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  5 

in  dreaming  dreams  of  reckoning.  Look  you !  " 
The  half-breed's  voice  rose  to  an  angry  snarl. 
u  I  am  Red  River  born.  My  father  was  white  — 
as  white  as  you.  But  you  are  Yankee,  and  he 
was  British  bred,  and  a  gentleman's  son.  And 
my  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  chief,  and  I  was 
a  man.  Ay,  and  one  had  to  look  the  second 
time  to  see  what  manner  of  blood  ran  in  my  veins ; 
for  I  lived  with  the  whites,  and  was  one  of  them, 
and  my  father's  heart  beat  in  me.  It  happened 
there  was  a  maiden  —  white  —  who  looked  on  me 
with  kind  eyes.  Her  father  had  much  land  and 
many  horses  ;  also  he  was  a  big  man  among  his 
people,  and  his  blood  was  the  blood  of  the  French. 
He  said  the  girl  knew  not  her  own  mind,  and 
talked  overmuch  with  hex,  and  became  wroth  that 
such  things  should  be. 

"  But  she  knew  her  mind,  for  we  came  quick 
before  the  priest.  And  quicker  had  come  her 
father,  with  lying  words,  false  promises,  I  know 
not  what ;  so  that  the  priest  stiffened  his  neck  and 
would  not  make  us  that  we  might  live  one  with 


6  The  God  of  His  Fathers 

the  other.  As  at  the  beginning  it  was  the  church 
which  would  not  bless  my  birth,  so  now  it  was 
the  church  which  refused  me  marriage  and  put 
the  blood  of  men  upon  my  hands.  Bien!  Thus 
have  I  cause  to  love  the  church.  So  I  struck  the 
priest  on  his  woman's  mouth,  and  we  took  swift 
horses,  the  girl  and  I,  to  Fort  Pierre,  where  was 
a  minister  of  good  heart.  But  hot  on  our  trail 
was  her  father,  and  brothers,  and  other  men  he 
had  gathered  to  him.  And  we  fought,  our  horses 
on  the  run,  till  I  emptied  three  saddles  and  the 
rest  drew  off  and  went  on  to  Fort  Pierre.  Then 
we  took  east,  the  girl  and  I,  to  the  hills  and  forests, 
and  we  lived  one  with  the  other,  and  we  were  not 
married,  —  the  work  of  the  good  church  which  I 
love  like  a  son. 

"  But  mark  you,  for  this  is  the  strangeness  of 
woman,  the  way  of  which  no  man  may  under- 
stand. One  of  the  saddles  I  emptied  was  that  of 
her  father's,  and  the  hoofs  of  those  who  came 
behind  had  pounded  him  into  the  earth.  This  we 
saw,  the  girl  and  I?  and  this  I  had  forgot  had  she 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  7 

not  remembered.  And  in  the  quiet  of  the  even- 
ing, after  the  day's  hunt  were  done,  it  came  be- 
tween us,  and  in  the  silence  of  the  night  when  we 
lay  beneath  the  stars  and  should  have  been  one. 
It  was  there  always.  She  never  spoke,  but  it  sat 
by  our  fire  and  held  us  ever  apart.  She  tried  to 
put  it  aside,  but  at  such  times  it  would  rise  up  till 
I  could  read  it  in  the  look  of  her  eyes,  in  the  very 
in-take  of  her  breath. 

"  So  in  the  end  she  bore  me  a  child,  a  woman- 
child,  and  died.  Then  I  went  among  my  mother's 
people,  that  it  might  nurse  at  a  warm  breast  and 
live.  But  my  hands  were  wet  with  the  blood  of 
men,  look  you,  because  of  the  church,  wet  with 
the  blood  of  men.  And  the  Riders  of  the  North 
came  for  me,  but  my  mother's  brother,  who  was 
then  chief  in  his  own  right,  hid  me  and  gave  me 
horses  and  food.  And  we  went  away,  my  woman- 
child  and  I,  even  to  the  Hudson  Bay  Country, 
where  white  men  were  few  and  the  questions  they 
asked  not  many.  And  I  worked  for  the  company 
as  a  hunter,  as  a  guide,  as  a  driver  of  dogs,  till  my 


8  The  God  of  His  Fathers 

woman-child  was  become  a  woman,  tall,  and 
slender,  and  fair  to  the  eye. 

"You  know  the  winter,  long  and  lonely,  breed- 
ing evil  thoughts  and  bad  deeds.  The  Chief  Fac- 
tor was  a  hard  man,  and  bold.  And  he  was  not 
such  that  a  woman  would  delight  in  looking  upon. 
But  he  cast  eyes  upon  my  woman-child  who  was 
become  a  woman.  Mother  of  God  !  he  sent  me 
away  on  a  long  trip  with  the  dogs,  that  he  might 
—  you  understand,  he  was  a  hard  man  and  without 
heart.  She  was  most  white,  and  her  soul  was 
white,  and  a  good  woman,  and  —  well,  she  died. 
"  It  was  bitter  cold  the  night  of  my  return,  and 
I  had  been  away  months,  and  the  dogs  were  limp- 
ing sore  when  I  came  to  the  fort.  The  Indians 
and  breeds  looked  on  me  in  silence,  and  I  felt  the 
fear  of  I  knew  not  what,  but  I  said  nothing  till 
the  does  were  fed  and  I  had  eaten  as  a  man  with 

o 

work  before  him  should.  Then  I  spoke  up,  de- 
manding the  word,  and  they  shrank  from  me, 
afraid  of  my  anger  and  what  I  should  do ;  but  the 
story  came  out,  the  pitiful  story,  word  for  word 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  9 

and  act  for  act,  and  they  marvelled  that  I  should 
be  so  quiet. 

"  When  they  had  done  I  went  to  the  Factor's 
house,  calmer  than  now  in  the  telling  of  it.  He 
had  been  afraid  and  called  upon  the  breeds  to  help 
him  j  but  they  were  not  pleased  with  the  deed,  and 
had  left  him  to  lie  on  the  bed  he  had  made.  So 
he  had  fled  to  the  house  of  the  priest.  Thither  I 
followed.  But  when  I  was  come  to  that  place, 
the  priest  stood  in  my  way,  and  spoke  soft  words, 
and  said  a  man  in  anger  should  go  neither  to  the 
right  nor  left,  but  straight  to  God.  I  asked  by 
the  right  of  a  father's  wrath  that  he  give  me  past, 
but  he  said  only  over  his  body,  and  besought  with 
me  to  pray.  Look  you,  it  was  the  church,  always 
the  church ;  for  I  passed  over  his  body  and  sent 
the  Factor  to  meet  my  woman-child  before  his 
god,  which  is  a  bad  god,  and  the  god  of  the  white 
men. 

"  Then  was  there  hue  and  cry,  for  word  was 
sent  to  the  station  below,  and  I  came  away. 
Through  the  Land  of  the  Great  Slave,  down  the 


io          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

Valley  of  the  Mackenzie  to  the  never-opening  ice, 
over  the  White  Rockies,  past  the  Great  Curve  of 
the  Yukon,  even  to  this  place  did  I  come.  And 
from  that  day  to  this,  yours  is  the  first  face  of  my 
father's  people  I  have  looked  upon.  May  it  be 
the  last !  These  people,  which  are  my  people, 
are  a  simple  folk,  and  I  have  been  raised  to  honor 
among  them.  My  word  is  their  law,  and  their 
priests  but  do  my  bidding,  else  would  I  not  suffer 
them.  When  I  speak  for  them  I  speak  for  my- 
self. We  ask  to  be  let  alone.  We  do  not  Want 
your  kind.  If  we  permit  you  to  sit  by  our  fires, 
after  you  will  come  your  church,  your  priests,  and 
your  gods.  And  know  this,  for  each  white  man 
who  comes  to  my  village,  him  will  I  make  deny 
his  god.  You  are  the  first,  and  I  give  you  grace. 
So  it  were  well  you  go,  and  go  quickly." 
u  I  am  not  responsible  for  my  brothers,"  the 
second  man  spoke  up,  filling  his  pipe  in  a  medita- 
tive manner.  Hay  Stockard  was  at  times  as 
thoughtful  of  speech  as  he  was  wanton  of  action  j 
but  only  at  times. 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          1 1 

"  But  I  know  your  breed,"  responded  the  other. 
"  Your  brothers  are  many,  and  it  is  you  and  yours 
who  break  the  trail  for  them  to  follow.  In  time 
they  shall  come  to  possess  the  land,  but  not  in  my 
time.  Already,  have  I  heard,  are  they  on  the 
head-reaches  of  the  Great  River,  and  far  away 
below  are  the  Russians." 

Hay  Stockard  lifted  his  head  with  a  quick  start. 
This  was  startling  geographical  information.  The 
Hudson  Bay  post  at  Fort  Yukon  had  other  notions 
concerning  the  course  of  the  river,  believing  it  to 
flow  into  the  Arctic. 

"  Then  the  Yukon  empties  into  Bering  Sea  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  do  not  know,  but  below  there  are  Russians, 
many  Russians.  Which  is  neither  here  nor  there. 
You  may  go  on  and  see  for  yourself;  you  may  go 
back  to  your  brothers ;  but  up  the  Koyukuk  you 
shall  not  go  while  the  priests  and  fighting  men  do 
my  bidding.  Thus  do  I  command,  I,  Baptiste  the 
Red,  whose  word  is  law  and  who  am  head  man 
over  this  people/' 


1 2          The  God  of  His  Fathers 
u  And  should  I  not  go  down  to  the  Russians,  or 
back  to  my  brothers  ?  " 

"  Then  shall  you  go  swift-footed  before  your  god, 
which  is  a  bad  god,  and  the  god  of  the  white 
men." 

The  red  sun  shot  up  above  the  northern  skyline, 
dripping  and  bloody.  Baptiste  the  Red  came  to 
his  feet,  nodded  curtly,  and  went  back  to  his  camp 
amid  the  crimson  shadows  and  the  singing  of  the 
robins. 

Hay  Stockard  finished  his  pipe  by  the  fire,  pic- 
turing in  smoke  and  coal  the  unknown  upper 
reaches  of  the  Koyukuk,  the  strange  stream 
which  ended  here  its  arctic  travels  and  merged 
its  waters  with  the  muddy  Yukon  flood.  Some- 
where up  there,  if  the  dying  words  of  a  ship- 
wrecked sailorman  who  had  made  the  fearful 
overland  journey  were  to  be  believed,  and  if 
the  vial  of  golden  grains  in  his  pouch  attested 
anything,  —  somewhere  up  there,  in  that  home 
of  winter,  stood  the  Treasure  House  of  the 
North.  And  as  keeper  of  the  gate,  Baptiste  the 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          1 3 

Red,  English  half-breed  and  renegade,  barred 
the  way. 

"  Bah  I  "  He  kicked  the  embers  apart  and  rose 
to  his  full  height,  arms  lazily  outstretched,  facing 
the  flushing  north  with  careless  soul. 

ii 

HAY  STOCKARD  swore,  harshly,  in  the  rugged 
monosyllables  of  his  mother  tongue.  His  wife 
lifted  her  gaze  from  the  pots  and  pans,  and  fol- 
lowed his  in  a  keen  scrutiny  of  the  river.  She 
was  a  woman  of  the  Teslin  Country,  wise  in 
the  ways  of  her  husband's  vernacular  when  it 
grew  intensive.  From  the  slipping  of  a  snow- 
shoe  thong  to  the  forefront  of  sudden  death,  she 
could  gauge  occasion  by  the  pitch  and  volume 
of  his  blasphemy.  So  she  knew  the  present 
occasion  merited  attention.  A  long  canoe,  with 
paddles  flashing  back  the  rays  of  the  westering 
sun,  was  crossing  the  current  from  above  and 
urging  in  for  the  eddy.  Hay  Stockard  watched 


14         The  God  of  His  Fathers 

it    intently.     Three    men    rose    and    dipped,   rose 

and  dipped,  in   rhythmical  precision ;    but    a    red 

bandanna,  wrapped  about  the  head  of  one,  caught 

and  held  his  eye. 

"  Bill !  "  he  called.     «  Oh,  Bill !  " 

A    shambling,  loose-jointed    giant    rolled    out    of 

one  of  the  tents,  yawning  and  rubbing  the  sleep 

from    his    eyes.     Then    he    sighted    the    strange 

canoe  and  was  wide  awake  on  the  instant. 

"By    the    jumping    Methuselah!     That    damned 

sky-pilot ! " 

Hay  Stockard  nodded  his  head  bitterly,  half-reached 

for  his  rifle,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Pot-shot  him,"   Bill    suggested,  "  and  settle  the 

thing  out  of  hand.    He  '11  spoil  us  sure  if  we  don't." 

But     the     other     declined     this    drastic    measure 

and   turned   away,  at  the  same  time  bidding  the 

woman  return  to  her  work,  and  calling  Bill  back 

from    the   bank.     The   two  Indians  in  the  canoe 

moored  it  on  the  edge  of  the  eddy,  while  its  white 

occupant,  conspicuous  by  his  gorgeous  head-gear, 

came  up  the   bank. 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          1 5 

u  Like    Paul     of   Tarsus,  I     give    you    greeting. 
Peace  be  unto  you  and  grace  before  the  Lord." 
His    advances    were    met     sullenly,    and    without 
speech. 

"To  you,  Hay  Stockard,  blasphemer  and  Philis- 
tine, greeting.  In  your  heart  is  the  lust  of 
Mammon,  in  your  mind  cunning  devils,  in  your 
tent  this  woman  whom  you  live  with  in  adultery  ; 
yet  of  these  divers  sins,  even  here  in  the  wilder- 
ness, I,  Sturges  Owen,  apostle  to  the  Lord,  bid 
you  to  repent  and  cast  from  you  your  iniquities." 
u  Save  your  cant  !  Save  your  cant  ! "  Hay 
Stockard  broke  in  testily.  "  You  '11  need  all 
you  've  got,  and  more,  for  Red  Baptiste  over 
yonder." 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  Indian  camp, 
where  the  half-breed  was  looking  steadily  across, 
striving  to  make  out  the  new-comers.  Sturges 
Owen,  disseminator  of  light  and  apostle  to  the 
Lord,  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  steep  and  com- 
manded his  men  to  bring  up  the  camp  outfit. 
Stockard  followed  him. 


1 6          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

"  Look  here,"  he  demanded,  plucking  the  mission- 
ary by  the  shoulder  and  twirling  him  about.  u  Do 
you  value  your  hide  ?  " 

"My  life  is  in  the  Lord's  keeping,  and  I  do  but 
work  in  His  vineyard,"  he  replied  solemnly. 
"  Oh,  stow  that  !      Are  you   looking  for  a  job  of 
martyrship  ?  " 
"  If  He  so  wills." 

"  Well,  you  '11  find  it  right  here,  but  I  'm  going 
to  give  you  some  advice  first.  Take  it  or  leave 
it.  If  you  stop  here,  you  '11  be  cut  off*  in  the 
midst  of  your  labors.  And  not  you  alone,  but 
your  men,  Bill,  my  wife  —  " 
"  Who  is  a  daughter  of  Belial  and  hearkeneth  not 
to  the  true  Gospel." 

"And  myself.  Not  only  do  you  bring  trouble 
upon  yourself,  but  upon  us.  I  was  frozen  in 
with  you  last  winter,  as  you  will  well  recollect, 
and  I  know  you  for  a  good  man  and  a  fool.  If 
you  think  it  your  duty  to  strive  with  the  heathen, 
well  and  good  ;  but  do  exercise  some  wit  in  the 
way  you  go  about  it.  This  man,  Red  Baptiste, 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          1 7 

is  no  Indian.  He  comes  of  our  common  stock,  is 
as  bull-necked  as  I  ever  dared  be,  and  as  wild  a 
fanatic  the  one  way  as  you  are  the  other.  When 
you  two  come  together,  hell  '11  be  to  pay,  and  I 
don't  care  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  Understand  ? 
So  take  my  advice  and  go  away.  If  you  go 
down-stream,  you  '11  fall  in  with  the  Russians. 
There  's  bound  to  be  Greek  priests  among  them, 
and  they  '11  see  you  safe  through  to  Bering  Sea, — 
that 's  where  the  Yukon  empties,  —  and  from 
there  it  won't  be  hard  to  get  back  to  civilization. 
Take  my  word  for  it  and  get  out  of  here  as  fast 
as  God '11  let  you." 

"  He  who  carries  the  Lord  in  his  heart  and  the 
Gospel  in  his  hand  hath  no  fear  of  the  machina- 
tions of  man  or  devil,"  the  missionary  answered 
stoutly.  "  I  will  see  this  man  and  wrestle  with  him. 
One  backslider  returned  to  the  fold  is  a  greater 
victory  than  a  thousand  heathen.  He  who  is 
strong  for  evil  can  be  as  mighty  for  good,  witness 
Saul  when  he  journeyed  up  to  Damascus  to  bring 
Christian  captives  to  Jerusalem.  And  the  voice 


1 8          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

of  the  Saviour  came  to  him,  crying,  '  Saul,  Saul, 
why  persecutest  thou  me  ? '  And  therewith  Paul 
arrayed  himself  on  the  side  of  the  Lord,  and 
thereafter  was  most  mighty  in  the  saving  of  souls. 
And  even  as  thou,  Paul  of  Tarsus,  even  so  do  I 
work  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  bearing  trials 
and  tribulations,  scoffs  and  sneers,  stripes  and 
punishments,  for  His  dear  sake." 
"  Bring  up  the  little  bag  with  the  tea  and  a 
kettle  of  water,"  he  called  the  next  instant  to  his 
boatmen ;  "  not  forgetting  the  haunch  of  cariboo 
and  the  mixing-pan." 

When  his  men,  converts  by  his  own  hand,  had 
gained  the  bank,  the  trio  fell  to  their  knees,  hands 
and  backs  burdened  with  camp  equipage,  and 
offered  up  thanks  for  their  passage  through  the 
wilderness  and  their  safe  arrival.  Hay  Stockard 
looked  upon  the  function  with  sneering  disap- 
proval, the  romance  and  solemnity  of  it  lost  to 
his  matter-of-fact  soul.  Baptiste  the  Red,  still 
gazing  across,  recognized  the  familiar  postures, 
and  remembered  the  girl  who  had  shared  his  star- 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          19 

roofed  couch  in  the  hills  and  forests,  and  the 
woman-child  who  lay  somewhere  by  bleak  Hud- 
son's Bay. 

m 

"  CONFOUND  it,  Baptiste,  could  n't  think  of  it. 
Not  for  a  moment.  Grant  that  this  man  is  a 
fool  and  of  small  use  in  the  nature  of  things, 
but  still,  you  know,  I  can't,  give  him  up." 
Hay  Stockard  paused,  striving  to  put  into  speech 
the  rude  ethics  of  his  heart. 

"  He 's  worried  me,  Baptiste,  in  the  past  and 
now,  and  caused  me  all  manner  of  troubles;  but 
can't  you  see,  he  's  my  own  breed  —  white  —  and 
—  and  —  why,  I  could  n't  buy  my  life  with  his, 
not  if  he  was  a  nigger." 

"So  be  it,"  Baptiste  the  Red  made  answer.  "I 
have  given  you  grace  and  choice.  I  shall  come 
presently,  with  my  priests  and  fighting  men,  and 
either  shall  I  kill  you,  or  you  deny  your  god. 
Give  up  the  priest  to  my  pleasure,  and  you  shall 


20          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

depart  in  peace.  Otherwise  your  trail  ends  here. 
My  people  are  against  you  to  the  babies.  Even 
now  have  the  children  stolen  away  your  canoes." 
He  pointed  down  to  the  river.  Naked  boys  had 
slipped  down  the  water  from  the  point  above,  cast 
loose  the  canoes,  and  by  then  had  worked  them 
into  the  current.  When  they  had  drifted  out  of 
rifle-shot  they  clambered  over  the  sides  and  paddled 
ashore. 

"  Give  me  the  priest,  and  you  may  have  them 
back  again.  Come  !  Speak  your  mind,  but 
without  haste." 

Stockard  shook  his  head.  His  glance  dropped 
to  the  woman  of  the  Teslin  Country  with  his  boy 
at  her  breast,  and  he  would  have  wavered  had  he 
not  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  men  before  him. 
"  I  am  not  afraid,"  Sturges  Owen  spoke  up. 
"  The  Lord  bears  me  in  his  right  hand,  and  alone 
am  I  ready  to  go  into  the  camp  of  the  unbeliever. 
It  is  not  too  late.  Faith  may  move  mountains. 
Even  in  the  eleventh  hour  may  I  win  his  soul  to 
the  true  righteousness." 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  2 1 
"  Trip  the  beggar  up  and  make  him  fast,"  Bill 
whispered  hoarsely  in  the  ear  of  his  leader,  while 
the  missionary  kept  the  floor  and  wrestled  with  the 
heathen.  "  Make  him  hostage,  and  bore  him  if 
they  get  ugly." 

"  No,"  Stockard  answered.  "  I  gave  him  my 
word  that  he  could  speak  with  us  unmolested. 
Rules  of  warfare,  Bill ;  rules  of  warfare.  He's 
been  on  the  square,  given  us  warning,  and  all  that, 
and  —  why,  damn  it,  man,  I  can't  break  my 
word  !  " 

"  He  '11  keep  his,  never  fear." 
"  Don't    doubt   it,  but  I  won't    let    a    half-breed 
outdo  me  in  fair  dealing.     Why  not  do  what  he 
wants,  —  give  him  the  missionary  and  be  done  with 
it  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  Bill  hesitated  doubtfully. 
"  Shoe  pinches,  eh  ?  " 

Bill   flushed   a   little  and  dropped   the    discussion. 
Baptiste  the  Red  was  still  waiting  the  final  decision. 
Stockard  went  up  to  him. 
"  It 's    this  way,  Baptiste.     I  came    to  your  vil- 


22          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

lage  minded  to  go  up  the  Koyukuk.  I  intended 
no  wrong.  My  heart  was  clean  of  evil.  It  is 
still  clean.  Along  comes  this  priest,  as  you  call 
him.  I  did  n't  bring  him  here.  He  'd  have  come 
whether  I  was  here  or  not.  But  now  that  he  is 
here,  being  of  my  people,  I  've  got  to  stand  by 
him.  And  I  'm  going  to.  Further,  it  will  be  no 
child's  play.  When  you  have  done,  your  village 
will  be  silent  and  empty,  your  people  wasted  as 
after  a  famine.  True,  we  will  be  gone ;  likewise 
the  pick  of  your  fighting  men — " 
"  But  those  who  remain  shall  be  in  peace,  nor 
shall  the  word  of  strange  gods  and  the  tongues  of 
strange  priests  be  buzzing  in  their  ears." 
Both  men  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  turned 
away,  the  half-breed  going  back  to  his  own  camp. 
The  missionary  called  his  two  men  to  him,  and 
they  fell  into  prayer.  Stockard  and  Bill  attacked 
the  few  standing  pines  with  their  axes,  felling 
them  into  convenient  breastworks.  The  child 
had  fallen  asleep,  so  the  woman  placed  it  on  a 
heap  of  furs  and  lent  a  hand  in  fortifying  the 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          23 

camp.  Three  sides  were  thus  defended,  the  steep 
declivity  at  the  rear  precluding  attack  from  that 
direction.  When  these  arrangements  had  been 
completed,  the  two  men  stalked  into  the  open, 
clearing  away,  here  and  there,  the  scattered  under- 
brush. From  the  opposing  camp  came  the  boom- 
ing of  war-drums  and  the  voices  of  the  priests 
stirring  the  people  to  anger. 
"  Worst  of  it  is  they  '11  come  in  rushes,"  Bill 
complained  as  they  walked  back  with  shouldered 
axes. 

"  And  wait  till  midnight,  when  the  light  gets  dim 
for  shooting." 

"  Can't  start  the  ball  a-rolling  too  early,  then." 
Bill  exchanged  the  axe  for  a  rifle,  and  took  a 
careful  rest.  One  of  the  medicine-men,  towering 
above  his  tribesmen,  stood  out  distinctly.  Bill 
drew  a  bead  on  him. 
«  All  ready  ?  "  he  asked. 

Stockard  opened  the  ammunition  box,  placed  the 
woman  where  she  could  reload  in  safety,  and  gave 
the  word.  The  medicine-man  dropped.  For  a 


24  The  God  of  His  Fathers 
moment  there  was  silence,  then  a  wild  howl  went 
up  and  a  flight  of  bone  arrows  fell  short. 
"I  'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  the  beggar,"  Bill  re- 
marked, throwing  a  fresh  shell  into  place.  "I'll 
swear  I  drilled  him  clean  between  the  eyes." 
"  Did  n't  work."  Stockard  shook  his  head  gloom- 
ily. Baptiste  had  evidently  quelled  the  more  war- 
like of  his  followers,  and  instead  of  precipitating 
an  attack  in  the  bright  light  of  day,  the  shot  had 
caused  a  hasty  exodus,  the  Indians  drawing  out 
of  the  village  beyond  the  zone  of  fire. 
In  the  full  tide  of  his  proselyting  fervor,  borne 
along  by  the  hand  of  God,  Sturges  Owen  would 
have  ventured  alone  into  the  camp  of  the  unbe- 
liever, equally  prepared  for  miracle  or  martyrdom  ; 
but  in  the  waiting  which  ensued,  the  fever  of 
conviction  died  away  gradually,  as  the  natural  man 
asserted  itself.  Physical  fear  replaced  spiritual 
hope ;  the  love  of  life,  the  love  of  God.  It  was 
no  new  experience.  He  could  feel  his  weakness 
coming  on,  and  knew  it  of  old  time.  He  had 
struggled  against  it  and  been  overcome  by  it  before. 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          25 

He  remembered  when  the  other  men  had  driven 
their  paddles  like  mad  in  the  van  of  a  roaring  ice- 
flood,  how,  at  the  critical  moment,  in  a  panic  of 
worldly  terror,  he  had  dropped  his  paddle  and  be- 
sought wildly  with  his  God  for  pity.  And  there 
were  other  times.  The  recollection  was  not  pleas- 
ant. It  brought  shame  to  him  that  his  spirit 
should  be  so  weak  and  his  flesh  so  strong.  But 
the  love  of  life !  the  love  of  life !  He  could  not 
strip  it  from  him.  Because  of  it  had  his  dim  an- 
cestors perpetuated  their  line ;  because  of  it  was 
he  destined  to  perpetuate  his.  His  courage,  if 
courage  it  might  be  called,  was  bred  of  fanaticism. 
The  courage  of  Stockard  and  Bill  was  the  adher- 
ence to  deep-rooted  ideals.  Not  that  the  love  of 
life  was  less,  but  the  love  of  race  tradition  more ; 
not  that  they  were  unafraid  to  die,  but  that  they 
were  brave  enough  not  to  live  at  the  price  of 
shame. 

The  missionary  rose,  for  the  moment  swayed 
by  the  mood  of  sacrifice.  He  half  crawled  over 
the  barricade  to  proceed  to  the  other  camp,  but 


26          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

sank  back,  a  trembling  mass,  wailing  :  "  As  the 
spirit  moves  !  As  the  spirit  moves  !  Who  am  I 
that  I  should  set  aside  the  judgments  of  God  ? 
Before  the  foundations  of  the  world  were  all 
things  written  in  the  book  of  life.  Worm  that  I 
am,  shall  I  erase  the  page  or  any  portion  thereof? 
As  God  wills,  so  shall  the  spirit  move !  " 
Bill  reached  over,  plucked  him  to  his  feet,  and 
shook  him,  fiercely,  silently.  Then  he  dropped 
the  bundle  of  quivering  nerves  and  turned  his 
attention  to  the  two  converts.  But  they  showed 
little  fright  and  a  cheerful  alacrity  in  preparing  for 
the  coming  passage  at  arms. 

Stockard,  who  had  been  talking  in  undertones 
with  the  Teslin  woman,  now  turned  to  the  mis- 
sionary. 

u  Fetch  him  over  here,"  he  commanded  of 
Bill. 

u  Now,"  he  ordered,  when  Sturges  Owen  had 
been  duly  deposited  before  him,  "  make  us  man 
and  wife,  and  be  lively  about  it."  Then  he  added 
apologetically  to  Bill :  "  No  telling  how  it  Js  to  end, 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          27 

so  I  just  thought  I  'd  get  my  affairs  straightened 
up." 

The  woman  obeyed  the  behest  of  her  white 
lord.  To  her  the  ceremony  was  meaningless. 
By  her  lights  she  was  his  wife,  and  had  been  from 
the  day  they  first  foregathered.  The  converts 
served  as  witnesses.  Bill  stood  over  the  mission- 
ary, prompting  him  when  he  stumbled.  Stockard 
put  the  responses  in  the  woman's  mouth,  and 
when  the  time  came,  for  want  of  better,  ringed 
her  finger  with  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his 
own. 

"  Kiss   the   bride ! "    Bill   thundered,  and   Sturges 
Owen  was  too  weak  to  disobey. 
"  Now  baptize  the  child  !  " 
"  Neat  and  tidy,"  Bill  commented. 
u  Gathering   the   proper   outfit  for   a   new    trail," 
the    father    explained,    taking    the  boy   from   the 
mother's    arms.     u  I  was  grub-staked,  once,  into 
the  Cascades,  and  had  everything  in  the  kit  except 
salt.     Never  shall  forget  it.     And  if  the  woman 
and  the  kid  cross  the  divide  to-night  they  might  as 


28          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

well  be  prepared  for  pot-luck.  A  long  shot, 
Bill,  between  ourselves,  but  nothing  lost  if  it 
misses." 

A  cup  of  water  served  the  purpose,  and  the  child 
was  laid  away  in  a  secure  corner  of  the  barricade. 
The  men  built  the  fire,  and  the  evening  meal  was 
cooked. 

The  sun  hurried  round  to  the  north,  sinking 
closer  to  the  horizon.  The  heavens  in  that 
quarter  grew  red  and  bloody.  The  shadows 
lengthened,  the  light  dimmed,  and  in  the  sombre 
recesses  of  the  forest  life  slowly  died  away.  Even 
the  wild  fowl  in  the  river  softened  their  raucous 
chatter  and  feigned  the  nightly  farce  of  going  to 
bed.  Only  the  tribesmen  increased  their  clamor, 
war-drums  booming  and  voices  raised  in  savage 
folk  songs.  But  as  the  sun  dipped  they  ceased 
their  tumult.  The  rounded  hush  of  midnight  was 
complete.  Stockard  rose  to  his  knees  and  peered 
over  the  logs.  Once  the  child  wailed  in  pain  and 
disconcerted  him.  The  mother  bent  over  it,  but 
it  slept  again.  The  silence  was  interminable,  pro- 


The  God  of  His  Fathers  29 
found.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  the  robins  burst  into 
full-throated  song.  The  night  had  passed. 
A  flood  of  dark  figures  boiled  across  the  open. 
Arrows  whistled  and  bow-thongs  sang.  The 
shrill-tongued  rifles  answered  back.  A  spear,  and 
a  mighty  cast,  transfixed  the  Teslin  woman  as 
she  hovered  above  the  child.  A  spent  arrow, 
diving  between  the  logs,  lodged  in  the  missionary's 
arm. 

There  was  no  stopping  the  rush.  The  middle 
distance  was  cumbered  with  bodies,  but  the  rest 
surged  on,  breaking  against  and  over  the  barricade 
like  an  ocean  wave.  Sturges  Owen  fled  to  the 
tent,  while  the  men  were  swept  from  their  feet, 
buried  beneath  the  human  tide.  Hay  Stockard 
alone  regained  the  surface,  flinging  the  tribesmen 
aside  like  yelping  curs.  He  had  managed  to  seize 
an  axe.  A  dark  hand  grasped  the  child  by  a 
naked  foot,  and  drew  it  from  beneath  its  mother. 
At  arm's  length  its  puny  body  circled  through  the 
air,  dashing  to  death  against  the  logs.  Stockard 
clove  the  man  to  the  chin  and  fell  to  clearing 


30         The  God  of  His  Fathers 

space.  The  ring  of  savage  faces  closed  in,  raining 
upon  him  spear-thrusts  and  bone-barbed  arrows. 
The  sun  shot  up,  and  they  swayed  back  and  forth 
in  the  crimson  shadows.  Twice,  with  his  axe 
blocked  by  too  deep  a  blow,  they  rushed  him  ;  but 
each  time  he  flung  them  clear.  They  fell  under- 
foot and  he  trampled  dead  and  dying,  the  way 
slippery  with  blood.  And  still  the  day  brightened 
and  the  robins  sang.  Then  they  drew  back  from 
him  in  awe,  and  he  leaned  breathless  upon  his 
axe. 

"  Blood  of  my  soul !  "  cried  Baptiste  the  Red. 
"  But  thou  art  a  man.  Deny  thy  god,  and  thou 
shalt  yet  live." 

Stockard  swore  his  refusal,  feebly  but  with 
grace. 

"  Behold  !  A  woman  !  "  Sturges  Owen  had  been 
brought  before  the  half-breed. 
Beyond  a  scratch  on  the  arm,  he  was  uninjured, 
but  his  eyes  roved  about  him  in  an  ecstasy  of  fear. 
The  heroic  figure  of  the  blasphemer,  bristling  with 
wounds  and  arrows,  leaning  defiantly  upon  his  axe, 


The  God  of  His  Fathers          3 1 

indifferent,  indomitable,  superb,  caught  his  waver- 
ing vision.  And  he  felt  a  great  envy  of  the  man 
who  could  go  down  serenely  to  the  dark  gates  of 
death.  Surely  Christ,  and  not  he,  Sturges  Owen, 
had  been  moulded  in  such  manner.  And  why  not 
he  ?  He  felt  dimly  the  curse  of  ancestry,  the 
feebleness  of  spirit  which  had  come  down  to  him 
out  of  the  past,  and  he  felt  an  anger  at  the  creative 
force,  symbolize  it  as  he  would,  which  had  formed 
him,  its  servant,  so  weakly.  For  even  a  stronger 
man,  this  anger  and  the  stress  of  circumstance  were 
sufficient  to  breed  apostasy,  and  for  Sturges  Owen 
it  was  inevitable.  In  the  fear  of  man's  anger  he 
would  dare  the  wrath  of  God.  He  had  been  raised 
up  to  serve  the  Lord  only  that  he  might  be  cast 
down.  He  had  been  given  faith  without  the 
strength  of  faith ;  he  had  been  given  spirit  without 
the  power  of  spirit.  It  was  unjust. 
"  Where  now  is  thy  god  ? "  the  half-breed  de- 
manded. 

"  I  do  not  know."     He  stood  straight  and  rigid, 
like  a  child  repeating  a  catechism. 


32          The  God  of  His  Fathers 

"  Hast  thou  then  a  god  at  all  ?  " 
"  I  had." 
"  And  now  ?  " 
«  No." 

Hay  Stockard  swept  the  blood  from  his  eyes  and 
laughed.  The  missionary  looked  at  him  curiously, 
as  in  a  dream.  A  feeling  of  infinite  distance  came 
over  him,  as  though  of  a  great  remove.  In  that 
which  had  transpired,  and  which  was  to  transpire, 
he  had  no  part.  He  was  a  spectator  —  at  a  dis- 
tance, yes,  at  a  distance.  The  words  of  Baptiste 
came  to  him  faintly  :  — 

"  Very  good.  See  that  this  man  go  free,  and  that 
no  harm  befall  him.  Let  him  depart  in  peace. 
Give  him  a  canoe  ahd  food.  Set  his  face  toward 
the  Russians,  that  he  may  tell  their  priests  of 
Baptiste  the  Red,  in  whose  country  there  is  no 
god." 

They  led    him  to   the   edge  of  the   steep,   where 
they  paused  to  witness  the  final  tragedy.     The  half- 
breed  turned  to  Hay  Stockard. 
"  There  is  no  god,"  he  prompted. 


The  God  of  His  Fathers         33 
The  man  laughed  in  reply.     One  of  the   young 
men  poised  a  war-spear  for  the  cast. 
"  Hast  thou  a  god  ?  " 
"  Ay,  the  God  of  my  fathers." 
He  shifted  the  axe  for  a  better  grip.     Baptiste  the 
Red  gave  the  sign,  and  the  spear  hurtled  full  against 
his  breast.     Sturges  Owen  saw  the  ivory  head  stand 
out  beyond  his  back,  saw  the  man  sway,  laughing, 
and  snap  the  shaft  short  as  he  fell  upon  it.     Then 
he  went  down  to  the  river,  that  he  might  carry  to 
the  Russians  the  message  of  Baptiste  the  Red,  in 
whose  country  there  was  no  god. 


The  Great  Interrogation 

TO  say  the  least,  Mrs.  Sayther's  career  in 
Dawson  was  meteoric.  She  arrived  in 
the  spring,  with  dog  sleds  and  French- 
Canadian  voyageurs^  blazed  gloriously  for  a  brief 
month,  and  departed  up  the  river  as  soon  as  it 
was  free  of  ice.  Now  womanless  Dawson  never 
quite  understood  this  hurried  departure,  and  the 
local  Four  Hundred  felt  aggrieved  and  lonely  till 
the  Nome  strike  was  made  and  old  sensations  gave 
way  to  new.  For  it  had  delighted  in  Mrs. 
Sayther,  and  received  her  wide-armed.  She  was 
pretty,  charming,  and,  moreover,  a  widow.  And 
because  of  this  she  at  once  had  at  heel  any  num- 
ber of  Eldorado  Kings,  officials,  and  adventuring 
younger  sons,  whose  ears  were  yearning  for  the 
frou-frou  of  a  woman's  skirts. 


The  Great  Interrogation          35 

The  mining  engineers  revered  the  memory  of 
her  husband,  the  late  Colonel  Sayther,  while  the 
syndicate  and  promoter  representatives  spoke  awe- 
somely of  his  deals  and  manipulations  ;  for  he  was 
known  down  in  the  States  as  a  great  mining  man, 
and  as  even  a  greater  one  in  London.  Why  his 
widow,  of  all  women,  should  have  come  into  the 
country,  was  the  great  interrogation.  But  they 
were  a  practical  breed,  the  men  of  the  Northland, 
with  a  wholesome  disregard  for  theories  and  a 
firm  grip  on  facts.  And  to  not  a  few  of  them 
Karen  Sayther  was  a  most  essential  fact.  That 
she  did  not  regard  the  matter  in  this  light,  is  evi- 
denced by  the  neatness  and  celerity  with  which 
refusal  and  proposal  tallied  off  during  her  four 
weeks'  stay.  And  with  her  vanished  the  fact,  and 
only  the  interrogation  remained. 
To  the  solution,  Chance  vouchsafed  one  clew. 
Her  last  victim,  Jack  Coughran,  having  fruitlessly 
laid  at  her  feet  both  his  heart  and  a  five-hundred- 
foot  creek  claim  on  Bonanza,  celebrated  the  mis- 
fortune by  walking  all  of  a  night  with  the  gods. 


36          The  Great  Interrogation 

In  the  midwatch  of  this  night  he  happened  to  rub 
shoulders  with  Pierre  Fontaine,  none  other  than 
head  man  of  Karen  Sayther's  voyageurs.  This 
rubbing  of  shoulders  led  to  recognition  and  drinks, 
and  ultimately  involved  both  men  in  a  common 
muddle  of  inebriety. 

"  Heh  ?  "  Pierre  Fontaine  later  on  gurgled 
thickly.  u  Vot  for  Madame  Sayther  mak  visi- 
tation to  thees  country  ?  More  better  you  spik 
wit  her.  I  know  no  t'ing  'tall,  only  all  de  tarn 
her  ask  one  man's  name.  c  Pierre,'  her  spik  wit 
me ;  '  Pierre,  you  moos'  find  thees  mans,  and  I 
gif  you  mooch  —  one  thousand  dollar  you  find 
thees  mans.'  Thees  mans  ?  Ah,  oul.  Thees 
man's  name  —  vot  you  call  —  Daveed  Payne. 
Oui,  m'sieu,  Daveed  Payne.  All  de  tarn  her  spik 
das  name.  And  all  de  tarn  I  look  rount  vaire 
mooch,  work  lak  hell,  but  no  can  find  das  dam 
mans,  and  no  get  one  thousand  dollar  'tall.  By 
dam  ! 

"  Heh  ?  Ah,  oui.  One  tam  dose  mens  vot 
come  from  Circle  City,  dose  mens  know  thees 


The  Great  Interrogation          37 

mans.  Him  Birch  Creek,  dey  spik.  And  ma- 
dame  ?  Her  say  '  Bon ! '  and  look  happy  lak 
anyt'ing.  And  her  spik  wit  me.  c  Pierre/  her 
spik,  '  harness  de  dogs.  We  go  queek.  We  find 
thees  mans  I  gif  you  one  thousand  dollar  more.' 
And  I  say,  c  Oui,  queek  !  Allom,  madame  !  ' 
"  For  sure,  I  t'ink,  das  two  thousand  dollar 
mine.  Bully  boy !  Den  more  mens  come  from 
Circle  City,  and  dey  say  no,  das  thees  mans, 
Daveed  Payne,  come  Dawson  leel  tarn  back.  So 
madame  and  I  go  not  'tall. 

"  O«/,  m'sieu.  Thees  day  madame  spik.  c  Pierre,' 
her  spik,  and  gif  me  five  hundred  dollar,  '  go  buy 
poling-boat.  To-morrow  we  go  up  de  river.' 
Ah,  ouij  to-morrow,  up  de  river,  and  das  dam 
Sitka  Charley  mak  me  pay  for  de  poling-boat  five 
hundred  dollar.  Dam  !  " 

Thus  it  was,  when  Jack  Coughran  unburdened 
himself  next  day,  that  Dawson  fell  to  wondering 
who  was  this  David  Payne,  and  in  what  way 
his  existence  bore  upon  Karen  Sayther's.  But 
that  very  day,  as  Pierre  Fontaine  had  said, 


38          The  Great  Interrogation 

Mrs.  Sayther  and  her  barbaric  crew  of  voyageurs 
towed  up  the  east  bank  to  Klondike  City, 
shot  across  to  the  west  bank  to  escape  the 
bluffs,  and  disappeared  amid  the  maze  of  islands 
to  the  south. 

ii 

a  Out,  madame,  thees  is  de  place.  One,  two, 
t'ree  island  below  Stuart  River.  Thees  is  t'ree 
island." 

As  he  spoke,  Pierre  Fontaine  drove  his  pole 
against  the  bank  and  held  the  stern  of  the  boat 
against  the  current.  This  thrust  the  bow  in,  till 
a  nimble  breed  climbed  ashore  with  the  painter 
and  made  fast. 

"  One  leel  tarn,  madame,  I  go  look  see." 
A  chorus  of  dogs  marked  his  disappearance  over 
the  edge  of  the  bank,  but  a  minute  later  he  was 
back  again. 

"  Out,  madame,  thees  is  de  cabin.  I  mak  in- 
vestigation. No  can  find  mans  at  home.  But 


The  Great  Interrogation          39 

him  no  go  vaire  far,  vaire  long,  or  him  no  leave 
dogs.      Him  come  queek,  you  bet !  " 
"  Help  me  out,  Pierre.      I  'm  tired  all  over  from 
the   boat.     You  might  have  made  it  softer,    you 
know." 

From  a  nest  of  furs  amidships,  Karen  Sayther 
rose  to  her  full  height  of  slender  fairness.  But  if 
she  looked  lily-frail  in  her  elemental  environment, 
she  was  belied  by  the  grip  she  put  upon  Pierre's 
hand,  by  the  knotting  of  her  woman's  biceps  as  it 
took  the  weight  of  her  body,  by  the  splendid  effort 
of  her  limbs  as  they  held  her  out  from  the  perpen- 
dicular bank  while  she  made  the  ascent.  Though 
shapely  flesh  clothed  delicate  frame,  her  body  was 
a  seat  of  strength. 

Still,  for  all  the  careless  ease  with  which  she 
had  made  the  landing,  there  was  a  warmer  color 
than  usual  to  her  face,  and  a  perceptibly  extra 
beat  to  her  heart.  But  then,  also,  it  was  with  a 
certain  reverent  curiousness  that  she  approached 
the  cabin,  while  the  flush  on  her  cheek  showed 
a  yet  riper  mellowness. 


40          The  Great  Interrogation 

"  Look,  see  !  "  Pierre  pointed  to  the  scattered 
chips  by  the  woodpile.  "  Him  fresh  —  two, 
t'ree  day,  no  more." 

Mrs.  Sayther  nodded.  She  tried  to  peer  through 
the  small  window,  but  it  was  made  of  greased 
parchment  which  admitted  light  while  it  blocked 
vision.  Failing  this,  she  went  round  to  the 
door,  half  lifted  the  rude  latch  to  enter,  but 
changed  her  mind  and  let  it  fall  back  into  place. 
Then  she  suddenly  dropped  on  one  knee  and 
kissed  the  rough-hewn  threshold.  If  Pierre 
Fontaine  saw,  he  gave  no  sign,  and  the  mem- 
ory in  the  time  to  come  was  never  shared.  But 
the  next  instant,  one  of  the  boatmen,  placidly 
lighting  his  pipe,  was  startled  by  an  unwonted 
harshness  in  his  captain's  voice. 
"  Hey  !  You !  Le  Goire  !  You  mak  'm  soft  more 
better,"  Pierre  commanded.  "  Plenty  bear-skin  ; 
plenty  blanket.  Dam  !  " 

But  the  nest  was  soon  after  disrupted,  and  the 
major  portion  tossed  up  to  the  crest  of  the  shore, 
where  Mrs.  Sayther  lay  down  to  wait  in  comfort. 


The  Great  Interrogation  41 
Reclining  on  her  side,  she  looked  out  and  over 
the  wide-stretching  Yukbn.  Above  the  mountains 
which  lay  beyond  the  further  shore,  the  sky  was 
murky  with  the  smoke  of  unseen  forest  fires, 
and  through  this  the  afternoon  sun  broke  feebly, 
throwing  a  vague  radiance  to  earth,  and  unreal 
shadows.  To  the  sky-line  of  the  four  quarters 
—  spruce-shrouded  islands,  dark  waters,  and  ice- 
scarred  rocky  ridges  —  stretched  the  immaculate 
wilderness.  No  sign  of  human  existence  broke 
the  solitude ;  no  sound  the  stillness.  The  land 
seemed  bound  under  the  unreality  of  the  un- 
known, wrapped  in  the  brooding  mystery  of 
great  spaces. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  which  made  Mrs.  Sayther 
nervous ;  for  she  changed  her  position  constantly, 
now  to  look  up  the  river,  now  down,  or  to  scan 
the  gloomy  shores  for  the  half-hidden  mouths  of 
back  channels.  After  an  hour  or  so  the  boat- 
men were  sent  ashore  to  pitch  camp  for  the 
night,  but  Pierre  remained  with  his  mistress  to 
watch. 


42          The  Great  Interrogation 

"  Ah  !  him  come  thees  tarn,"  he  whispered, 
after  a  long  silence,  his  gaze  bent  up  the  river 
to  the  head  of  the  island. 

A  canoe,  with  a  paddle  flashing  on  either  side, 
was  slipping  down  the  current.  In  the  stern  a 
man's  form,  and  in  the  bow  a  wo.man's,  swung 
rhythmically  to  the  work.  Mrs.  Sayther  had 
no  eyes  for  the  woman  till  the  canoe  drove  in 
closer  and  her  bizarre  beauty  peremptorily  de- 
manded notice.  A  close-fitting  blouse  of  moose- 
skin,  fantastically  beaded,  outlined  faithfully  the 
well-rounded  lines  of  her  body,  while  a  silken 
kerchief,  gay  of  color  and  picturesquely  draped, 
partly  covered  great  masses  of  blue-black  hair. 
But  it  was  the  face,  cast  belike  in  copper  bronze, 
which  caught  and  held  Mrs.  Sayther's  fleeting 
glance.  Eyes,  piercing  and  black  and  large,  with 
a  traditionary  hint  of  obliqueness,  looked  forth 
from  under  clear-stencilled,  clean-arching  brows. 
Without  suggesting  cadaverousness,  though  high- 
boned  and  prominent,  the  cheeks  fell  away  and 
met  in  a  mouth,  thin-lipped  and  softly  strong. 


The  Great  Interrogation          43 

It  was  a  face  which  advertised  the  dimmest  trace 
of  ancient  Mongol  blood,  a  reversion,  after  long 
centuries  of  wandering,  to  the  parent  stem.  This 
effect  was  heightened  by  the  delicately  aquiline 
nose  with  its  thin  trembling  nostrils,  and  by 
the  general  air  of  eagle  wildness  which  seemed 
to  characterize  not  only  the  face  but  the  crea- 
ture herself.  She  was,  in  fact,  the  Tartar  type 
modified  to  idealization,  and  the  tribe  of  Red 
Indian  is  lucky  that  breeds  such  a  unique  body 
once  in  a  score  of  generations. 
Dipping  long  strokes  and  strong,  the  girl, 
in  concert  with  the  man,  suddenly  whirled 
the  tiny  craft  about  against  the  current  and 
brought  it  gently  to  the  shore.  Another  in- 
instant  and  she  stood  at  the  top  of  the  bank, 
heaving  up  by  rope,  hand  under  hand,  a  quarter 
of  fresh-killed  moose.  Then  the  man  followed 
her,  and  together,  with  a  swift  rush,  they  drew 
up  the  canoe.  The  dogs  were  in  a  whining 
mass  about  them,  and  as  the  girl  stooped  among 
them  caressingly,  the  man's  gaze  fell  upon  Mrs. 


44          The  Great  Interrogation 

Sayther,  who  had  arisen.  He  looked,  brushed  his 
eyes  unconsciously  as  though  his  sight  were  de- 
ceiving him,  and  looked  again. 
u  Karen,"  he  said  simply,  coming  forward  and 
extending  his  hand,  "  I  thought  for  the  moment 
I  was  dreaming.  I  went  snow-blind  for  a  time, 
this  spring,  and  since  then  my  eyes  have  been 
playing  tricks  with  me." 

Mrs.  Sayther,  whose  flush  had  deepened  and 
whose  heart  was  urging  painfully,  had  been  pre- 
pared for  almost  anything  save  this  coolly  extended 
hand ;  but  she  tactfully  curbed  herself  and  grasped 
it  heartily  with  her  own. 

"You  know,  Dave,  I  threatened  often  to  come, 
and  I  would  have,  too,  only  —  only  —  " 
"  Only  I  did  n't  give   the   word."      David   Payne 
laughed  and  watched  the  Indian  girl  disappearing 
into  the  cabin. 

"  Oh,    I    understand,   Dave,   and    had    I    been   in 
your  place  I  'd  most  probably  have  done  the  same. 
But  I  have  come  —  now." 
"Then   come  a  little  bit   farther,  into   the    cabin 


The  Great  Interrogation          45 

and  get  something  to  eat,"  he  said  genially,  ig- 
noring or  missing  the  feminine  suggestion  of 
appeal  in  her  voice.  "And  you  must  be  tired 
too.  Which  way  are  you  travelling  ?  Up  ? 
Then  you  wintered  in  Dawson,  or  came  in  on 
the  last  ice.  Your  camp  ? "  He  glanced  at 
the  voyageurs  circled  about  the  fire  in  the  open, 
and  held  back  the  door  for  her  to  enter. 
u  I  came  up  on  the  ice  from  Circle  City  last 
winter,"  he  continued,  "  and  settled  down  here 
for  a  while.  Am  prospecting  some  on  Hender- 
son Creek,  and  if  that  fails,  have  been  think- 
ing of  trying  my  hand  this  fall  up  the  Stuart 
River." 

"  You    are  n't    changed     much,    are    you  ? "    she 
asked     irrelevantly,    striving    to    throw    the    con- 
versation upon  a  more  personal  basis. 
"A    little    less    flesh,   perhaps,  and   a   little   more 
muscle.      How  did  you  mean  ?  " 
But    she    shrugged     her    Shoulders    and     peered 
through   the   dim    light   at    the    Indian    girl,   who 
had  lighted  the  fire  and  was  frying  great  chunks 


46          The  Great  Interrogation 

of  moose  meat,  alternated  with  thin  ribbons  of 
bacon. 

"  Did  you  stop  in  Dawson  long  ? "  The  man 
was  whittling  a  stave  of  birchwood  into  a  rude 
axe-handle,  and  asked  the  question  without  rais- 
ing his  head. 

u  Oh,  a  few  days,"  she  answered,  following  the 
girl  with  her  eyes,  and  hardly  hearing.  "  What 
were  you  saying  ?  In  Dawson  ?  A  month,  in 
fact,  and  glad  to  get  away.  The  arctic  male  is 
elemental,  you  know,  and  somewhat  strenuous 
in  his  feelings." 

"  Bound    to  be  when  he  gets  right  down  to  the 
soil.      He  leaves  convention  with  the  spring  bed  at 
home.     But  you  were  wise  in  your  choice  of  time 
for  leaving.     You  '11  be  out  of  the  country  before 
mosquito  season,  which  is  a  blessing  your  lack  of 
experience  will  not  permit  you  to  appreciate." 
"  I    suppose    not.      But    tell    me    about    yourself, 
about   your  life.     What   kind   of  neighbors  have 
you  ?     Or  have  you  any  ?  " 
While  she   queried    she   watched    the   girl    grind- 


The  Great  Interrogation          47 

ing  coffee  in  the  corner  of  a  flower  sack  upon  the 
hearthstone.  With  a  steadiness  and  skill  which 
predicated  nerves  as  primitive  as  the  method,  she 
crushed  the  imprisoned  berries  with  a  heavy  frag- 
ment of  quartz.  David  Payne  noted  his  visitor's 
gaze,  and  the  shadow  of  a  smile  drifted  over  his 
lips. 

"  I  did  have  some,"  he  replied.  "  Missourian 
chaps,  and  a  couple  of  Cornishmen,  but  they 
went  down  to  Eldorado  to  work  at  wages  for 
a  grubstake." 

Mrs.  Sayther  cast  a  look  of  speculative  regard 
upon  the  girl.  "  But  of  course  there  are  plenty 
of  Indians  about  ?  " 

"  Every  mother's  son  of  them  down  to  Dawson 
long  ago.  Not  a  native  in  the  whole  country, 
barring  Winapie  here,  and  she  's  a  Koyokuk  lass, 
—  comes  from  a  thousand  miles  or  so  down  the 
river." 

Mrs.  Sayther  felt  suddenly  faint ;  and  though 
the  smile  of  interest  in  no  wise  waned,  the  face 
of  the  man  seemed  to  draw  away  to  a  telescopic 


48          The  Great  Interrogation 

distance,  and  the  tiered  logs  of  the  cabin  to  whirl 
drunkenly  about.  But  she  was  bidden  draw  up 
to  the  table,  and  during  the  meal  discovered 
time  and  space  in  which  to  find  herself.  She 
talked  little,  and  that  principally  about  the  land 
and  weather,  while  the  man  wandered  off  into  a 
long  description  of  the  difference  between  the  shal- 
low summer  diggings  of  the  Lower  Country  and 
the  deep  winter  diggings  of  the  Upper  Country. 
"  You  do  not  ask  why  I  came  north  ? "  she 
asked.  "  Surely  you  know."  They  had  moved 
back  from  the  table,  and  David  Payne  had  re- 
turned to  his  axe-handle.  "  Did  you  get  my 
letter  ?  " 

"A  last  one?  No,  I  don't  think  so.  Most 
probably  it 's  trailing  around  the  Birch  Creek 
Country  or  lying  in  some  trader's  shack  on  the 
Lower  River.  The  way  they  run  the  mails  in 
here  is  shameful.  No  order,  no  system,  no  —  " 
"  Don't  be  wooden,  Dave !  Help  me !  "  She 
spoke  sharply  now,  with  an  assumption  of  author- 
ity which  rested  upon  the  past.  "  Why  don't  you 


The  Great  Interrogation          49 

ask  me  about  myself?  About  those  we  knew  in 
the  old  times  ?  Have  you  no  longer  any  interest 
in  the  world  ?  Do  you  know  that  my  husband  is 
dead?" 

"Indeed,  I  am  sorry.      How  long  —  " 
"  David ! "      She   was    ready    to    cry     with    vex- 
ation, but  the  reproach  she  threw  into  her  voice 
eased  her. 

"  Did  you  get  any  of  my  letters  ?  You  must 
have  got  some  of  them,  though  you  never 
answered." 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  get  the  last  one,  announcing, 
evidently,  the  death  of  your  husband,  and  most 
likely  others  went  astray ;  but  I  did  get  some. 
I  — er  —  read  them  aloud  to  Winapie  as  a  warn- 
ing —  that  is,  you  know,  to  impress  upon  her  the 
wickedness  of  her  white  sisters.  And  I  —  er  — 
think  she  profited  by  it.  Don't  you  ?  " 
She  disregarded  the  sting,  and  went  on.  "  In 
the  last  letter,  which  you  did  not  receive,  I  told, 
as  you  have  guessed,  of  Colonel  Sayther's  death. 
That  was  a  year  ago.  I  also  said  that  if  you  did 
4 


50          The  Great  Interrogation 

not  come  out  to  me,  I  would  go  in  to  you.     And 
as  I  had  often  promised,  I  came." 
"  I  know  of  no  promise." 
"  In  the  earlier  letters  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  promised,  but  as  I  neither  asked 
nor  answered,  it  was  unratified.  So  I  do  not 
know  of  any  such  promise.  But  I  do  know  of 
another,  which  you,  too,  may  remember.  It  was 
very  long  ago."  He  dropped  the  axe-handle  to  the 
floor  and  raised  his  head.  "  It  was  so  very  long 
ago,  yet  I  remember  it  distinctly,  the  day,  the  time, 
every  detail.  We  were  in  a  rose  garden,  you 
and  I,  —  your  mother's  rose  garden.  All  things 
were  budding,  blossoming,  and  the  sap  of  spring 
was  in  our  blood.  And  I  drew  you  over — it 
was  the  first  —  and  kissed  you  full  on  the  lips. 
Don't  you  remember  ?  " 

u  Don't  go  over  it,  Dave,  don't !      I  know  every 
shameful  line  of  it.      How  often  have  I  wept !      If 
you  only  knew  how  I  have  suffered  —  " 
"  You   promised    me    then  —  ay,  and  a  thousand 
times  in  the  sweet  days  that  followed.     Each  look 


The  Great  Interrogation          5 1 

of  your  eyes,  each  touch  of  your  hand,  each  syl- 
lable that  fell  from  your  lips,  was  a  promise.  And 
then  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  there  came  a  man. 
He  was  old  —  old  enough  to  have  begotten  you  — 
and  not  nice  to  look  upon,  but  as  the  world  goes, 
clean.  He  had  done  no  wrong,  followed  the  letter 
of  the  law,  was  respectable.  Further,  and  to  the 
point,  he  possessed  some  several  paltry  mines,  —  a 
score  ;  it  does  not  matter :  and  he  owned  a  few 
miles  of  lands,  and  engineered  deals,  and  clipped 
coupons.  He  —  " 

"  But  there  were  other  things,"  she  interrupted, 
"  I  told  you.  Pressure  —  money  matters  —  want 
—  my  people —  trouble.  You  understood  the  whole 
sordid  situation.  I  could  not  help  it.  It  was  not 
my  will.  I  was  sacrificed,  or  I  sacrificed,  have  it  as 
you  wish.  But,  my  God  !  Dave,  I  gave  you  up  ! 
You  never  did  me  justice.  Think  what  I  have 
gone  through  !  " 

"  It  was  not  your  will  ?  Pressure  ?  Under  high 
heaven  there  was  no  thing  to  will  you  to  this 
man's  bed  or  that." 


52          The  Great  Interrogation 

c*  But  I  cared  for  you  all  the  time,"  she  pleaded. 
"  I  was   unused   to  your  way  of  measuring  love. 
I  am  still  unused.     I  do  not  understand." 
"  But  now  !  now  !  " 

"  We  were  speaking  of  this  man  you  saw  fit  to 
marry.  What  manner  of  man  was  he  ?  Wherein 
did  he  charm  your  soul  ?  What  potent  virtues 
were  his  ?  True,  he  had  a  golden  grip,  —  an 
almighty  golden  grip.  He  knew  the  odds.  He 
was  versed  in  cent  per  cent.  He  had  a  narrow 
wit  and  excellent  judgment  of  the  viler  parts, 
whereby  he  transferred  this  man's  money  to  his 
pockets,  and  that  man's  money,  and  the  next 
man's.  And  the  law  smiled.  In  that  it  did  not 
condemn,  our  Christian  ethics  approved.  By 
social  measure  he  was  not  a  bad  man.  But  by 
your  measure,  Karen,  by  mine,  by  ours  of  the 
rose  garden,  what  was  he  ?  " 
"  Remember,  he  is  dead." 

"  The  fact  is  not  altered  thereby.  What  was 
he  ?  A  great,  gross,  material  creature,  deaf  to 
song,  blind  to  beauty,  dead  to  the  spirit.  He  was 


The  Great  Interrogation          53 

fat  with  laziness,  and  flabby-cheeked,  and  the 
round  of  his  belly  witnessed  his  gluttony  — " 
"  But  he  is  dead.  It  is  we  who  are  now  — 
now  !  now  !  Don't  you  hear  ?  As  you  say,  I 
have  been  inconstant.  I  have  sinned.  Good. 
But  should  not  you,  too,  cry  peccavi  ?  If  I  have 
broken  promises,  have  not  you  ?  Your  love  of 
the  rose  garden  was  of  all  time,  or  so  you  said. 
Where  is  it  now  ?  " 

"  It  is  here !  now  ! "  he  cried,  striking  his  breast 
passionately  with  clenched  hand.  "  It  has  always 
been." 

"  And  your  love  was  a  great  love ;  there  was 
none  greater,"  she  continued  ;  "  or  so  you  said  in 
the  rose  garden.  Yet  it  is  not  fine  enough,  large 
enough,  to  forgive  me  here,  crying  now  at  your 
feet  ?  " 

The  man  hesitated.  His  mouth  opened  ;  words 
shaped  vainly  on  his  lips.  She  had  forced 
him  to  bare  his  heart  and  speak  truths  which 
he  had  hidden  from  himself.  And  she  was 
good  to  look  upon,  standing  there  in  a  glory 


54          The  Great  Interrogation 

of  passion,  calling  back  old  associations  and 
warmer  life.  He  turned  away  his  head  that 
he  might  not  see,  but  she  passed  around  and 
fronted  him. 

u  Look  at  me,  Dave !  Look  at  me !  I  am 
the  same,  after  all.  And  so  are  you,  if  you 
would  but  see.  We  are  not  changed." 
Her  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  had 
half-passed,  roughly,  about  her,  when  the  sharp 
crackle  of  a  match  startled  him  to  himself. 
Winapie,  alien  to  the  scene,  was  lighting  the 
slow  wick  of  the  slush  lamp.  She  appeared  to 
start  out  against  a  background  of  utter  black, 
and  the  flame,  flaring  suddenly  up,  lighted  her 
bronze  beauty  to  royal  gold. 
u  You  see,  it  is  impossible,"  he  groaned,  thrust- 
ing the  fair-haired  woman  gently  from  him.  u  It 
is  impossible,"  he  repeated.  "  It  is  impossible." 
"  I  am  not  a  girl,  Dave,  with  a  girl's  illusions," 
she  said  softly,  though  not  daring  to  come  back 
to  him.  "  It  is  as  a  woman  that  I  understand. 
Men  are  men.  A  common  custom  of  the  coun- 


The  Great  Interrogation          55 

try.     I  am  not  shocked.     I   divined   it  from  the 

first.     But  —  ah  !  —  it  is  only  a  marriage  of  the 

country  —  not  a  real  marriage  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  ask  such  questions  in   Alaska,"  he 

interposed  feebly. 

"  I  know,  but  —  " 

"Well,  then,  it  is  only  a  marriage  of  the  coun- 

try —  nothing  else." 

"  And  there  are  no  children  ?  " 

"No." 


"  No,  no;  nothing  —  but  it  is  impossible." 
"  But  it  is  not."  She  was  at  his  side  again,  her 
hand  touching  lightly,  caressingly,  the  sunburned 
back  of  his.  "  I  know  the  custom  of  the  land  too 
well.  Men  do  it  every  day.  They  do  not  care 
to  remain  here,  shut  out  from  the  world,  for  all 
their  days  ;  so  they  give  an  order  on  the  P.  C.  C. 
Company  for  a  year's  provisions,  some  money  in 
hand,  and  the  girl  is  content.  By  the  end  of  that 
time,  a  man  —  "  She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
50  with  the  girl  here,  We  will  give  her 


56  The  Great  Interrogation 
an  order  upon  the  company,  not  for  a  year,  but 
for  life.  What  was  she  when  you  found  her  ? 
A  raw,  meat-eating  savage ;  fish  in  summer, 
moose  in  winter,  feasting  in  plenty,  starving  in 
famine.  But  for  you  that  is  what  she  would 
have  remained.  For  your  coming  she  was  hap- 
pier; for  your  going,  surely,  with  a  life  of  com- 
parative splendor  assured,  she  will  be  happier 
than  if  you  had  never  been." 
"  No,  no,"  he  protested.  "  It  is  not  right." 
u  Come,  Dave,  you  must  see.  She  is  not  your 
kind.  There  is  no  race  affinity.  She  is  an  abo- 
rigine, sprung  from  the  soil,  yet  close  to  the  soil, 
and  impossible  to  lift  from  the  soil.  Born  sav- 
age, savage  she  will  die.  But  we  —  you  and  I 
—  the  dominant,  evolved  race  —  the  salt  of  the 
earth  and  the  masters  thereof!  We  are  made 
for  each  other.  The  supreme  call  is  of  kind, 
and  we  are  of  kind.  Reason  and  feeling  dictate 
it.  Your  very  instinct  demands  it.  That  you 
cannot  deny.  You  cannot  escape  the  generations 
behind  you.  Yours  is  an  ancestry  which  has 


The  Great  Interrogation          57 

survived  for  a  thousand  centuries,  and  for  a 
hundred  thousand  centuries,  and  your  line  must 
not  stop  here.  It  cannot.  Your  ancestry  will 
not  permit  it.  Instinct  is  stronger  than  the 
will.  The  race  is  mightier  than  you.  Come, 
Dave,  let  us  go.  We  are  young  yet,  and  life 
is  good.  Come." 

Winapie,  passing  out  of  the  cabin  to  feed 
the  dogs,  caught  his  attention  and  caused  him  to 
shake  his  head  and  weakly  to  reiterate.  But 
the  woman's  hand  slipped  about  his  neck,  and 
her  cheek  pressed  to  his.  His  bleak  life  rose 
up  and  smote  him,  —  the  vain  struggle  with  piti- 
less forces ;  the  dreary  years  of  frost  and  famine ; 
the  harsh  and  jarring  contact  with  elemental  life; 
the  aching  void  which  mere  animal  existence  could 
not  fill.  And  there,  seduction  by  his  side,  whis- 
pering of  brighter,  warmer  lands,  of  music,  light, 
and  joy,  called  the  old  times  back  again.  He  vis- 
ioned  it  unconsciously.  Faces  rushed  in  upon  him  ; 
glimpses  of  forgotten  scenes,  memories  of  merry 
hours ;  strains  of  song  and  trills  of  laughter  — 


58          The  Great  Interrogation 

u  Come,  Dave,  come.  I  have  for  both.  The 
way  is  soft."  She  looked  about  her  at  the  bare 
furnishings  of  the  cabin.  "  I  have  for  both.  The 
world  is  at  our  feet,  and  all  joy  is  ours.  Come ! 
come ! " 

She  was  in  his  arms,  trembling,  and  he  held  her 
tightly.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  .  .  .  But  the  snarl- 
ing of  hungry  dogs,  and  the  shrill  cries  of  Winapie 
bringing  about  peace  between  the  combatants, 
came  muffled  to  his  ear  through  the  heavy  logs. 
And  another  scene  flashed  before  him.  A  struggle 
in  the  forest,  —  a  bald-face  grizzly,  broken-legged, 
terrible;  the  snarling  of  the  dogs  and  the  shrill 
cries  of  Winapie  as  she  urged  them  to  the  attack ; 
himself  in  the  midst  of  the  crush,  breathless, 
panting,  striving  to  hold  off  red  death ;  broken- 
backed,  entrail-ripped  dogs  howling  in  impotent 
anguish  and  desecrating  the  snow ;  the  virgin 
white  running  scarlet  with  the  blood  of  man  and 
beast ;  the  bear,  ferocious,  irresistible,  crunching, 
crunching  down  to  the  core  of  his  life ;  and  Win- 
apie, at  the  last,  in  the  thick  of  the  frightful  mud- 


The  Great  Interrogation          59 

die,  hair  flying,  eyes  flashing,  fury  incarnate, 
passing  the  long  hunting  knife  again  and  again  — 
Sweat  started  to  his  forehead.  He  shook  off  the 
clinging  woman  and  staggered  back  to  the  wall. 
And  she,  knowing  that  the  moment  had  come,  but 
unable  to  divine  what  was  passing  within  him,  felt 
all  she  had  gained  slipping  away. 
"  Dave  !  Dave  !  "  she  cried.  u  t  will  not  give 
you  up  !  I  will  not  give  you  up !  If  you  do  not 
wish  to  come,  we  will  stay.  I  will  stay  with  you. 
The  world  is  less  to  me  than  are  you.  I  will  be  a 
Northland  wife  to  you.  I  will  cook  your  food, 
feed  your  dogs,  break  trail  for  you,  lift  a  paddle 
with  you.  I  can  do  it.  Believe  me,  I  am 
strong." 

Nor  did  he  doubt  it,  looking  upon  her  and  hold- 
ing her  ofF  from  him;  but  his  face  had  grown 
stern  and  gray,  and  the  warmth  had  died  out  of 
his  eyes. 

"  I  will  pay  off  Pierre  and  the  boatmen,  and  let 
them  go.  And  I  will  stay  with  you,  priest  or  no 
priest,  minister  or  no  minister ;  go  with  you,  now, 


60          The  Great  Interrogation 

anywhere  !  Dave  !  Dave  !  Listen  to  me  !  You 
say  I  did  you  wrong  in  the  past  —  and  I  did  —  let 
me  make  up  for  it,  let  me  atone.  If  I  did  not 
rightly  measure  love  before,  let  me  show  that  I 
can  now." 

She  sank  to  the  floor  and  threw  her  arms  about 
his  knees,  sobbing.     "And  you  do  care  for  me. 
You  do  care  for  rn£.     Think  !     The  long  years  I 
have  waited,  suffered  !     You  can  never  know  !  " 
He  stooped  and  raised  her  to  her  feet. 
"  Listen,"  he  commanded,  opening  the  door  and 
lifting  her  bodily  outside.     "  It  cannot  be.      We 
are  not  alone  to  be  considered.     You  must  go.      I 
wish  you  a  safe  journey.     You  will  find  it  tougher 
work  when  you  get  up  by  the  Sixty  Mile,  but  you 
have  the  best  boatmen  in  the  world,   and  will  get 
through  all  right.     Will  you  say  good-by  ?  " 
Though    she    already    had    herself    in    hand,    she 
looked  at  him  hopelessly.     "If — if — if  Winapie 
should  —  "     She  quavered  and  stopped. 
But     he     grasped     the     unspoken    thought,     and 
answered,  "Yes."     Then  struck  with  the   enor- 


The  Great  Interrogation          61 
mity   of  it,  "  It   cannot  be   conceived.     There  is 
no  likelihood.      It  must  not  be  entertained." 
"  Kiss    me,"    she    whispered,    her    face    lighting. 
Then  she  turned  and  went  away. 

"  Break  camp,  Pierre,"  she  said  to  the  boatman, 
who  alone  had  remained  awake  against  her  return. 
"  We  must  be  going." 

By  the  firelight  his  sharp  eyes  scanned  the  woe 
in  her  face,  but  he  received  the  extraordinary  com- 
mand as  though  it  were  the  most  usual  thing 
in  the  world.  "  Oui,  madame"  he  assented. 
"  Which  way  ?  Dawson  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  lightly  enough  ;  "  up  ;  out ; 
Dyea." 

Whereat  he  fell  upon  the  sleeping  voyageurs, 
kicking  them,  grunting,  from  their  blankets,  and 
buckling  them  down  to  the  work,  the  while  his 
voice,  vibrant  with  action,  shrilling  through  all  the 
camp.  In  a  trice  Mrs.  Sayther's  tiny  tent  had 
been  struck,  pots  and  pans  were  being  gathered 
up,  blankets  rolled,  and  the  men  staggering  under 


6  2          The  Great  Interrogation 

the  loads  to  the  boat.  Here,  on  the  banks,  Mrs. 
Sayther  waited  till  the  luggage  was  made  ship- 
shape and  her  nest  prepared. 
"  We  line  up  to  de  head  of  de  island,"  Pierre 
explained  to  her  while  running  out  the  long  tow 
rope.  "  Den  we  tak  to  das  back  channel,  where  de 
water  not  queek,  and  I  t'ink  we  mak  good  tarn." 
A  scuffling  and  pattering  of  feet  in  the  last 
year's  dry  grass  caught  his  quick  ear,  and  he  turned 
his  head.  The  Indian  girl,  circled  by  a  bristling 
ring  of  wolf  dogs,  was  coming  toward  them. 
Mrs.  Sayther  noted  that  the  girl's  face,  which  had 
been  apathetic  throughout  the  scene  in  the  cabin, 
had  now  quickened  into  blazing  and  wrathful  life. 
"  What  you  do  my  man  ?  "  she  demanded 
abruptly  of  Mrs.  Sayther.  u  Him  lay  on  bunk, 
and  him  look  bad  all  the  time.  I  say,  'What 
the  matter,  Dave  ?  You  sick  ? '  But  him  no  say 
nothing.  After  that  him  say,  '  Good  girl  Wina- 
pie,  go  way.  I  be  all  right  bimeby.'  What  you 
do  my  man,  eh  ?  I  think  you  bad  woman." 
Mrs.  Sayther  looked  curiously  at  the  barbarian 


The  Great  Interrogation          63 

woman  who  shared  the  life  of  this  man,  while  she 
departed  alone  in  the  darkness  of  night. 
"I  think  you  bad  woman,"  Winapie  repeated 
in  the  slow,  methodical  way  of  one  who  gropes  for 
strange  words  in  an  alien  tongue.  "  I  think 
better  you  go  way,  no  come  no  more.  Eh  ? 
What  you  think  ?  I  have  one  man.  I  Indian 
girl.  You  'Merican  woman.  You  good  to  see. 
You  find  plenty  men.  Your  eyes  blue  like  the 
sky.  Your  skin  so  white,  so  soft." 
Coolly  she  thrust  out  a  brown  forefinger  and 
pressed  the  soft  cheek  of  the  other  woman.  And 
to  the  eternal  credit  of  Karen  Sayther,  she  never 
flinched.  Pierre  hesitated  and  half  stepped  for- 
ward ;  but  she  motioned  him  away,  though  her 
heart  welled  to  him  with  secret  gratitude.  "  It 's 
all  right,  Pierre,"  she  said.  "  Please  go  away." 
He  stepped  back  respectfully  out  of  earshot, 
where  he  stood  grumbling  to  himself  and  measur- 
ing the  distance  in  springs. 

"Urn     white,    urn     soft,    like    baby."       Winapie 
touched  the  other  cheek  and  withdrew  her  hand. 


64          The  Great  Interrogation 

"  Bimeby  mosquito  come.  Skin  get  sore  in  spot ; 
urn  swell,  oh,  so  big ;  um  hurt,  oh,  so  much. 
Plenty  mosquito ;  plenty  spot.  I  think  better  you 
go  now  before  mosquito  come.  This  way," 
pointing  down  the  stream,  "  you  go  St.  Michael's ; 
that  way,"  pointing  up,  "  you  go  Dyea.  Better 
you  go  Dyea.  Good-by." 

And  that  which  Mrs.  Sayther  then  did,  caused 
Pierre  to  marvel  greatly.  For  she  threw  her  arms 
around  the  Indian  girl,  kissed  her,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Be  good  to  him,"  she  cried.  "  Be  good  to 
him." 

Then  she  slipped  half  down  the  face  of  the 
bank,  called  back  "  Good-by,"  and  dropped  into  the 
boat  amidships.  Pierre  followed  her  and  cast  off. 
He  shoved  the  steering  oar  into  place  and  gave  the 
signal.  Le  Goire  lifted  an  old  French  chanson ; 
the  men,  like  a  row  of  ghosts  in  the  dim  starlight, 
bent  their  backs  to  the  tow  line;  the  steering  oar 
cut  the  black  current  sharply,  and  the  boat  swept 
out  into  the  night. 


Which  Make  Men  Remember 

FORTUNE  LA  PEARLE  crushed  his  way 
through  the  snow,  sobbing,  straining, 
cursing  his  luck,  Alaska,  Nome,  the  cards, 
and  the  man  who  had  felt  his  knife.  The 
hot  blood  was  freezing  on  his  hands,  and  the 
scene  yet  bright  in  his  eyes,  —  the  man,  clutching 
the  table  and  sinking  slowly  to  the  floor ;  the 
rolling  counters  and  the  scattered  deck ;  the  swift 
shiver  throughout  the  room,  and  the  pause ;  the 
game-keepers  no  longer  calling,  and  the  clatter  of 
the  chips  dying  away ;  the  startled  faces ;  the 
infinite  instant  of  silence;  and  then  the  great 
blood-roar  and  the  tide  of  vengeance  which 
lapped  his  heels  and  turned  the  town  mad  behind 
him. 

"  All     hell 's    broke    loose,"   he    sneered,    turning 

aside  in  the  darkness  and  heading  for  the  beach. 

5 


66     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

Lights  were  flashing  from  open  doors,  and  tent, 
cabin,  and  dance-hall  let  slip  their  denizens  upon 
the  chase.  The  clamor  of  men  and  howling  of 
dogs  smote  his  ears  and  quickened  his  feet.  He 
ran  on  and  on.  The  sounds  grew  dim,  and  the 
pursuit  dissipated  itself  in  vain  rage  and  aimless 
groping.  But  a  flitting  shadow  clung  to  him. 
Head  thrust  over  shoulder,  he  caught  glimpses  of 
it,  now  taking  vague  shape  on  an  open  expanse  of 
snow,  now  merging  into  the  deeper  shadows  of 
some  darkened  cabin  or  beach-listed  craft. 
Fortune  La  Pearle  swore  like  a  woman,  weakly, 
with  the  hint  of  tears  that  comes  of  exhaustion, 
and  plunged  deeper  into  the  maze  of  heaped  ice, 
tents,  and  prospect  holes.  He  stumbled  over  taut 
hawsers  and  piles  of  dunnage,  tripped  on  crazy 
guy-ropes  and  insanely  planted  pegs,  and  fell  again 
and  again  upon  frozen  dumps  and  mounds  of 
hoarded  driftwood.  At  times,  when  he  deemed 
he  had  drawn  clear,  his  head  dizzy  with  the  pain- 
ful pounding  of  his  heart  and  the  suffocating  in- 
take of  his  breath,  he  slackened  down ;  and  ever 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     67 

the  shadow  leaped  out  of  the  gloom  and  forced 
him  on  in  heart-breaking  flight.  A  swift  intuition 
flashed  upon  him,  leaving  in  its  trail  the  cold  chill 
of  superstition.  The  persistence  of  the  shadow 
he  invested  with  his  gambler's  symbolism.  Silent, 
inexorable,  not  to  be  shaken  off,  he  took  it  as  the 
fate  which  waited  at  the  last  turn  when  chips  were 
cashed  in  and  gains  and  losses  counted  up.  Fortune 
La  Pearle  believed  in  those  rare,  illuminating 
moments,  when  the  intelligence  flung  from  it 
time  and  space,  to  rise  naked  through  eternity 
and  read  the  facts  of  life  from  the  open  book  of 
chance.  That  this  was  such  a  moment  he  had 
no  doubt;  and  when  he  turned  inland  and  sped 
across  the  snow-covered  tundra  he  was  not  startled 
because  the  shadow  took  upon  it  greater  definite- 
ness  and  drew  in  closer.  Oppressed  with  his  own 
impotence,  he  halted  in  the  midst  of  the  white 
waste  and  whirled  about.  His  right  hand  slipped 
from  its  mitten,  and  a  revolver,  at  level,  glistened 
in  the  pale  light  of  the  stars. 
"  Don't  shoot.  I  have  n't  a  gun." 


68      Which  Make  Men  Remember 

The  shadow  had  assumed  tangible  shape,  and  at 

the  sound  of  its  human  voice  a  trepidation  affected 

Fortune  La  Pearle's  knees,  and  his  stomach  was 

stricken  with  the  qualms  of  sudden  relief. 

Perhaps    things    fell    out    differently    because    Uri 

Bram  had  no  gun  that  night  when  he  sat  on  the 

hard  benches  of  the  El  Dorado  and  saw  murder 

done.     To  that  fact  also  might  be  attributed  the 

trip  on  the  Long  Trail  which  he  took  subsequently 

with  a   most   unlikely    comrade.      But  be  it  as  it 

may,  he   repeated    a   second  time,  "  Don't  shoot. 

Can't  you  see  I  have  n't  a  gun  ? " 

"Then  what  the  flaming  hell  did  you  take  after 

me   for  ?  "   demanded  the    gambler,    lowering   his 

revolver. 

Uri    Bram    shrugged    his    shoulders.       "  It    don't 

matter  much,  anyhow.     I  want  you  to  come  with 

me." 

"Where?" 

"To  my  shack,  over  on  the  edge  of  the 

camp." 

But    Fortune    La   Pearle    drove    the    heel    of   his 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     69 

moccasin  into  the  snow  and  attested  by  his 
various  deities  to  the  madness  of  Uri  Bram. 
"Who  are  you,"  he  perorated,  "and  what  am 
I,  that  I  should  put  my  neck  into  the  rope  at 
your  bidding  ?  " 

"  I  am  Uri  Bram,"  the  other  said  simply,  u  and 
my  shack  is  over  there  on  the  edge  of  camp.  I 
don't  know  who  you  are,  but  you  've  thrust  the 
soul  from  a  living  man's  body,  —  there's  the  blood 
red  on  your  sleeve,  —  and,  like  a  second  Cain,  the 
hand  of  all  mankind  is  against  you,  and  there  is  no 
place  you  may  lay  your  head.  Now,  I  have  a 
shack  —  " 

"  For  the  love  of  your  mother,  hold  your  say, 
man,"  interrupted  Fortune  La  Pearle,  "or  I'll 
make  you  a  second  Abel  for  the  joy  of  it.  So 
help  me,  I  will !  With  a  thousand  men  to  lay  me 
by  the  heels,  looking  high  and  low,  what  do  I 
want  with  your  shack  ?  I  want  to  get  out  of 
here  —  away  !  away  !  away  !  Cursed  swine  !  I  've 
half  a  mind  to  go  back  and  run  amuck,  and  settle 
for  a  few  of  them,  the  pigs !  One  gorgeous, 


70     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

glorious  fight,  and  end  the  whole  damn  business  ! 
It 's  a  skin  game,  that 's  what  life  is,  and  I  'm  sick 
of  it  ! " 

He  stopped,  appalled,  crushed  by  his  great  deso- 
lation, and  Uri  Bram  seized  the  moment.  He 
was  not  given  to  speech,  this  man,  and  that 
which  followed  was  the  longest  in  his  life,  save 
one  long  afterward  in  another  place. 
"  That 's  why  I  told  you  about  my  shack.  I 
can  stow  you  there  so  they  '11  never  find  you,  and 
I  've  got  grub  in  plenty.  Elsewise  you  can't 
get  away.  No  dogs,  no  nothing,  the  sea  closed, 
St.  Michael  the  nearest  post,  runners  to  carry 
the  news  before  you,  the  same  over  the  portage 
to  Anvik  —  not  a  chance  in  the  world  for  you! 
Now  wait  with  me  till  it  blows  over.  They  '11 
forget  all  about  you  in  a  month  or  less,  what  of 
stampeding  to  York  and  what  not,  and  you  can 
hit  the  trail  under  their  noses  and  they  won't 
bother.  I  've  got  my  own  ideas  of  justice.  When 
I  ran  after  you,  out  of  the  El  Dorado  and  along 
the  beach,  it  wasn't  to  catch  you  or  give  you 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     71 

up.  My  ideas  are  my  own,  and  that  's  not  one 
of  them." 

He  ceased  as  the  murderer  drew  a  prayer-book 
from  his  pocket.  With  the  aurora  borealis  glim- 
mering yellow  in  the  northeast,  heads  bared  to  the 
frost  and  naked  hands  grasping  the  sacred  book, 
Fortune  La  Pearle  swore  him  to  the  words  he  had 
spoken  —  an  oath  which  Uri  Bram  never  intended 
breaking,  and  never  broke. 

At  the  door  of  the  shack  the  gambler  hesitated 
for  an  instant,  marvelling  at  the  strangeness  of 
this  man  who  had  befriended  him,  and  doubting. 
But  by  the  candlelight  he  found  the  cabin  com- 
fortable and  without  occupants,  and  he  was 
quickly  rolling  a  cigarette  while  the  other  man 
made  coffee.  His  muscles  relaxed  in  the  warmth 
and  he  lay  back  with  half-assumed  indolence, 
intently  studying  Uri's  face  through  the  curling 
wisps  of  smoke.  It  was  a  powerful  face,  but 
its  strength  was  of  that  peculiar  sort  which  stands 
girt  in  and  unrelated.  The  seams  were  deep- 
graven,  more  like  scars,  while  the  stern  features 


72     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

were  in  no  way  softened  by  hints  of  sympathy  or 
humor.  Under  prominent  bushy  brows  the  eyes 
shone  cold  and  gray.  The  cheekbones,  high  and 
forbidding,  were  undermined  by  deep  hollows. 
The  chin  and  jaw  displayed  a  steadiness  of  pur- 
pose which  the  narrow  forehead  advertised  as 
single,  and,  if  needs  be,  pitiless.  Everything  was 
harsh,  the  nose,  the  lips,  the  voice,  the  lines  about 
the  mouth.  It  was  the  face  of  one  who  com- 
muned much  with  himself,  unused  to  seeking 
counsel  from  the  world ;  the  face  of  one  who 
wrestled  oft  of  nights  with  angels,  and  rose  to 
face  the  day  with  shut  lips  that  no  man  might 
know.  He  was  narrow  but  deep;  and  Fortune, 
his  own  humanity  broad  and  shallow,  could  make 
nothing  of  him.  Did  Uri  sing  when  merry  and 
sigh  when  sad,  he  could  have  understood ;  but  as 
it  was,  the  cryptic  features  were  undecipherable; 
he  could  not  measure  the  soul  they  concealed. 
"Lend  a  hand,  Mister  Man,"  Uri  ordered  when 
the  cups  had  been  emptied.  "  We  Ve  got  to  fix 
up  for  visitors." 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     73 

Fortune  purred  his  name  for  the  other's  benefit, 
and  assisted  understandingly.  The  bunk  was  built 
against  a  side  and  end  of  the  cabin.  It  was  a 
rude  affair,  the  bottom  being  composed  of  drift- 
wood logs  overlaid  with  moss.  At  the  foot  the 
rough  ends  of  these  timbers  projected  in  an 
uneven  row.  From  the  side  next  the  wall  Uri 
ripped  back  the  moss  and  removed  three  of  the 
logs.  The  jagged  ends  he  sawed  off  and  replaced 
so  that  the  projecting  row  remained  unbroken. 
Fortune  carried  in  sacks  of  flour  from  the  cache 
and  piled  them  on  the  floor  beneath  the  aperture. 
On  these  Uri  laid  a  pair  of  long  sea-bags,  and 
over  all  spread  several  thicknesses  of  moss  and 
blankets.  Upon  this  Fortune  could  lie,  with  the 
sleeping  furs  stretching  over  him  from  one  side 
of  the  bunk  to  the  other,  and  all  men  could 
look  upon  it  and  declare  it  empty. 
In  the  weeks  which  followed,  several  domi- 
ciliary visits  were  paid,  not  a  shack  or  tent  in 
Nome  escaping,  but  Fortune  lay  in  his  cranny 
undisturbed.  In  fact,  little  attention  was  given 


74  Which  Make  Men  Remember 
to  Uri  Bram's  cabin ;  for  it  was  the  last  place 
under  the  sun  to  expect  to  find  the  murderer  of 
John  Randolph.  Except  during  such  interrup- 
tions, Fortune  lolled  about  the  cabin,  playing 
long  games  of  solitaire  and  smoking  endless 
cigarettes.  Though  his  volatile  nature  loved 
geniality  and  play  of  words  and  laughter,  he 
quickly  accommodated  himself  to  Uri's  taci- 
turnity. Beyond  the  actions  and  plans  of  his 
pursuers,  the  state  of  the  trails,  and  the  price 
of  dogs,  they  never  talked ;  and  these  things 
were  only  discussed  at  rare  intervals  and  briefly. 
But  Fortune  fell  to  working  out  a  system,  and 
hour  after  hour,  and  day  after  day,  he  shuffled 
and  dealt,  shuffled  and  dealt,  noted  the  combina- 
tions of  the  cards  in  long  columns,  and  shuffled 
and  dealt  again.  Toward  the  end  even  this 
absorption  failed  him,  and,  head  bowed  upon 
the  table,  he  visioned  the  lively  all-night  houses 
of  Nome,  where  the  gamekeepers  and  lookouts 
worked  in  shifts  and  the  clattering  roulette  ball 
never  slept.  At  such  times  his  loneliness  and 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     75 

bankruptcy  stunned  him  till  he  sat  for  hours  in 
the  same  unblinking,  unchanging  position.  At 
other  times,  his  long-pent  bitterness  found  voice 
in  passionate  outbursts ;  for  he  had  rubbed  the 
world  the  wrong  way  and  did  not  like  the  feel 
of  it. 

"  Life 's  a  skin-game,"  he  was  fond  of  repeat- 
ing, and  on  this  one  note  he  rang  the  changes. 
"  I  never  had  half  a  chance,"  he  complained.  u  I 
was  faked  in  my  birth  and  flim-flammed  with  my 
mother's  milk.  The  dice  were  loaded  when  she 
tossed  the  box,  and  I  was  born  to  prove  the  loss. 
But  that  was  no  reason  she  should  blame  me  for 
it,  and  look  on  me  as  a  cold  deck  ;  but  she  did  — 
ay,  she  did.  Why  did  n't  she  give  me  a  show  ? 
Why  did  n't  the  world  ?  Why  did  I  go  broke 
in  Seattle  ?  Why  did  I  take  the  steerage,  and 
live  like  a  hog  to  Nome  ?  Why  did  I  go  to 
the  El  Dorado  ?  I  was  heading  for  Big  Pete's 
and  only  went  for  matches.  Why  did  n't  I  have 
matches  ?  Why  did  I  want  to  smoke  ?  Don't 
you  see?  All  worked  out,  every  bit  of  it,  all 


j6     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

parts  fitting  snug.  Before  I  was  born,  like  as 
not.  I  '11  put  the  sack  I  never  hope  to  get  on 
it,  before  I  was  born.  That 's  why !  That 's 
why  John  Randolph  passed  the  word  and  his 
checks  in  at  the  same  time.  Damn  him !  It 
served  him  well  right !  Why  did  n't  he  keep 
his  tongue  between  his  teeth  and  give  me  a 
chance  ?  He  knew  I  was  next  to  broke.  Why 
did  n't  I  hold  my  hand  ?  Oh,  why  ?  Why  ? 
Why?" 

And  Fortune  La  Pearle  would  roll  upon  the 
floor,  vainly  interrogating  the  scheme  of  things. 
At  such  outbreaks  Uri  said  no  word,  gave  no 
sign,  save  that  his  grey  eyes  seemed  to  turn  dull 
and  muddy,  as  though  from  lack  of  interest. 
There  was  nothing  in  common  between  these 
two  men,  and  this  fact  Fortune  grasped  suffi- 
ciently to  wonder  sometimes  why  Uri  had  stood 
by  him. 

But  the  time  of  waiting  came  to  an  end.  Even 
a  community's  blood  lust  cannot  stand  before  its 
gold  lust.  The  murder  of  John  Randolph  had 


Which  Make  Men  Remember  77 
already  passed  into  the  annals  of  the  camp,  and 
there  it  rested.  Had  the  murderer  appeared,  the 
men  of  Nome  would  certainly  have  stopped  stam- 
peding long  enough  to  see  justice  done,  whereas 
the  whereabouts  of  Fortune  La  Pearle  was  no 
longer  an  insistent  problem.  There  was  gold 
in  the  creek  beds  and  ruby  beaches,  and  when 
the  sea  opened,  the  men  with  healthy  sacks  would 
sail  away  to  where  the  good  things  of  life  were 
sold  absurdly  cheap. 

So,  one  night,  Fortune  helped  Uri  Bram  harness 
the  dogs  and  lash  the  sled,  and  the  twain  took  the 
winter  trail  south  on  the  ice.  But  it  was  not  all 
south  ;  for  they  left  the  sea  east  from  St.  Michael's, 
crossed  the  divide,  and  struck  the  Yukon  at  Anvik, 
many  hundred  miles  from  its  mouth.  Then  on, 
into  the  northeast,  past  Koyokuk,  Tanana,  and 
Minook,  till  they  rounded  the  Great  Curve  at 
Fort  Yukon,  crossed  and  recrossed  the  Arctic 
Circle,  and  headed  south  through  the  Flats.  It 
was  a  weary  journey,  and  Fortune  would  have 
wondered  why  the  man  went  with  him,  had  not 


78      Which  Make  Men  Remember 

Uri  told  him  that  he  owned  claims  and  had  men 
working  at  Eagle.  Eagle  lay  on  the  edge  of  the 
line ;  a  few  miles  farther  on,  the  British  flag  waved 
over  the  barracks  at  Fort  Cudahy.  Then  came 
Dawson,  Pelly,  the  Five  Fingers,  Windy  Arm, 
Caribou  Crossing,  Linderman,  the  Chilcoot  and 
Dyea. 

On  the  morning  after  passing  Eagle,  they  rose 
early.  This  was  their  last  camp,  and  they  were 
now  to  part.  Fortune's  heart  was  light.  There 
was  a  promise  of  spring  in  the  land,  and  the  days 
were  growing  longer.  The  way  was  passing  into 
Canadian  territory.  Liberty  was  at  hand,  the  sun 
was  returning,  and  each  day  saw  him  nearer  to  the 
Great  Outside.  The  world  was  big,  and  he  could 
once  again  paint  his  future  in  royal  red.  He  whis- 
tled about  the  breakfast  and  hummed  snatches  of 
light  song  while  Uri  put  the  dogs  in  harness  and 
packed  up.  But  when  all  was  ready,  Fortune's 
feet  itching  to  be  off,  Uri  pulled  an  unused  back- 
log to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 
"  Ever  hear  of  the  Dead  Horse  Trail  ?  " 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     79 

He  glanced  up  meditatively  and  Fortune  shook 
his  head,  inwardly  chafing  at  the  delay. 
"  Sometimes  there  are  meetings  under  circum- 
stances which  make  men  remember,"  Uri  con- 
tinued, speaking  in  a  low  voice  and  very  slowly, 
"  and  I  met  a  man  under  such  circumstances  on 
the  Dead  Horse  Trail.  Freighting  an  outfit  over 
the  White  Pass  in  '97  broke  many  a  man's 
heart,  for  there  was  a  world  of  reason  when  they 
gave  that  trail  its  name.  The  horses  died  like 
mosquitoes  in  the  first  frost,  and  from  Skaguay  to 
Bennett  they  rotted  in  heaps.  They  died  at  the 
Rocks,  they  were  poisoned  at  the  Summit,  and 
they  starved  at  the  Lakes;  they  fell  off  the  trail, 
what  there  was  of  it,  or  they  went  through  it ;  in 
the  river  they  drowned  under  their  loads,  or  were 
smashed  to  pieces  against  the  boulders;  they 
snapped  their  legs  in  the  crevices  and  broke  their 
backs  falling  backwards  with  their  packs ;  in  the 
sloughs  they  sank  from  sight  or  smothered  in  the 
slime,  and  they  were  disembowelled  in  the  bogs 
where  the  corduroy  logs  turned  end  up  in  the 


8o      Which  Make  Men  Remember 

mud  ;  men  shot  them,  worked  them  to  death,  and 
when  they  were  gone,  went  back  to  the  beach  and 
bought  more.  Some  did  not  bother  to  shoot  them, 
—  stripping  the  saddles  off  and  the  shoes  and  leav- 
ing them  where  they  fell.  Their  hearts  turned  to 
stone  —  those  which  did  not  break  —  and  they  be- 
came beasts,  the  men  on  Dead  Horse  Trail. 
u  It  was  there  I  met  a  man  with  the  heart  of 
a  Christ  and  the  patience.  And  he  was  honest. 
When  he  rested  at  midday  he  took  the  packs 
from  the  horses  so  that  they,  too,  might  rest. 
He  paid  $50  a  hundred-weight  for  their  fodder, 
and  more.  He  used  his  own  bed  to  blanket 
their  backs  when  they  rubbed  raw.  Other  men 
let  the  saddles  eat  holes  the  size  of  water-buckets. 
Other  men,  when  the  shoes  gave  out,  let  them 
wear  their  hoofs  down  to  the  bleeding  stumps. 
He  spent  his  last  dollar  for  horseshoe  nails.  I 
know  this  because  we  slept  in  the  one  bed  and 
ate  from  the  one  pot,  and  became  blood  brothers 
where  men  lost  their  grip  of  things  and  died  blas- 
pheming God.  He  was  never  too  tired  to  ease  a 


Which  Make  Men  Remember     81 

strap  or  tighten  a  cinch,  and  often  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes  when  he  looked  on  all  that  waste  of 
misery.  At  a  passage  in  the  rocks,  where  the 
brutes  upreared  hindlegged  and  stretched  their 
forelegs  upward  like  cats  to  clear  the  wall,  the 
way  was  piled  with  carcasses  where  they  had 
toppled  back.  And  here  he  stood,  in  the  stench 
of  hell,  with  a  cheery  word  and  a  hand  on  the 
rump  at  the  right  time,  till  the  string  passed  by. 
And  when  one  bogged  he  blocked  the  trail  till 
it  was  clear  again ;  nor  did  the  man  live  who 
crowded  him  at  such  time. 

"At  the  end  of  the  trail  a  man  who  had  killed 
fifty  horses  wanted  to  buy,  but  we  looked  at  him 
and  at  our  own,  —  mountain  cayuses  from  eastern 
Oregon.  Five  thousand  he  offered,  and  we  were 
broke,  but  we  remembered  the  poison  grass  of  the 
Summit  and  the  passage  in  the  Rocks,  and  the  man 
who  was  my  brother  spoke  no  word,  but  divided 
the  cayuses  into  two  bunches, — his  in  the  one  and 
mine  in  the  other,  —  and  he  looked  at  me  and  we 
understood  each  other.  So  he  drove  mine  to  the 
6 


8  2     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

one  side  and  I  drove  his  to  the  other,  and  we  took 
with  us  our  rifles  and  shot  them  to  the  last  one, 
while  the  man  who  had  killed  fifty  horses  cursed 
us  till  his  throat  cracked.  But  that  man,  with 
whom  I  welded  blood-brothership  on  the  Dead 
Horse  Trail  —  " 

"  Why,  that  man  was  John  Randolph,"  For- 
tune, sneering  the  while,  completed  the  climax 
for  him. 

Uri  nodded,  and  said,  "I  am  glad  you  under- 
stand." 

u  I  am  ready,"  Fortune  answered,  the  old  weary 
bitterness  strong  in  his  face  again.  "  Go  ahead, 
but  hurry." 

Uri  Bram  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  have  had  faith  in  God  all  the  days  of  my 
life.  I  believe  He  loves  justice.  I  believe  He 
is  looking  down  upon  us  now,  choosing  between 
us.  I  believe  He  waits  to  work  His  will  through 
my  own  right  arm.  And  such  is  my  belief,  that 
we  will  take  equal  chance  and  let  Him  speak  His 
own  judgment." 


Which  Make  Men  Remember  83 
Fortune's  heart  leaped  at  the  words.  He  did 
not  know  much  concerning  Uri's  God,  but  he 
believed  in  Chance,  and  Chance  had  been  com- 
ing his  way  ever  since  the  night  he  ran  down 
the  beach  and  across  the  snow.  cc  But  there 
is  only  one  gun,"  he  objected. 
"We  will  fire  turn  about,"  Uri  replied,  at  the 
same  time  throwing  out  the  cylinder  of  the  other 
man's  Colt  and  examining  it. 
u  And  the  cards  to  decide  !  One  hand  of  seven 
up!" 

Fortune's  blood  was  warming  to  the  game, 
and  he  drew  the  deck  from  his  pocket  as  Uri 
nodded.  Surely  Chance  would  not  desert  him 
now  !  He  thought  of  the  returning  sun  as  he 
cut  for  deal,  and  he  thrilled  when  he  found  the 
deal  was  his.  He  shuffled  and  dealt,  and  Uri 
cut  him  the  Jack  of  Spades.  They  laid  down 
their  hands.  Uri's  was  bare  of  trumps,  while 
he  held  ace,  deuce.  The  outside  seemed  very 
near  to  him  as  they  stepped  off  the  fifty 
paces. 


84     Which  Make  Men  Remember 

"  If  God  withholds  His  hand  and  you  drop  me, 
the  dogs  and  outfit  are  yours.  You  '11  find  a  bill 
of  sale,  already  made  out,  in  my  pocket,"  Uri 
explained,  facing  the  path  of  the  bullet,  straight 
and  broad-breasted. 

Fortune  shook  a  vision  of  the  sun  shining  on 
the  ocean  from  his  eyes  and  took  aim.  He  was 
very  careful.  Twice  he  lowered  as  the  spring 
breeze  shook  the  pines.  But  the  third  time  he 
dropped  on  one  knee,  gripped  the  revolver  steadily 
in  both  hands,  and  fired.  Uri  whirled  half  about, 
threw  up  his  arms,  swayed  wildly  for  a  moment, 
and  sank  into  the  snow.  But  Fortune  knew  he 
had  fired  too  far  to  one  side,  else  the  man  would 
not  have  whirled. 

When  Uri,  mastering  the  flesh  and  struggling 
to  his  feet,  beckoned  for  the  weapon,  Fortune 
was  minded  to  fire  again.  But  he  thrust  the 
idea  from  him.  Chance  had  been  very  good 
to  him  already,  he  felt,  and  if  he  tricked  now 
he  would  have  to  pay  for  it  afterward.  No, 
he  would  play  fair.  Besides  Uri  was  hard  hit 


Which  Make  Men  Remember  85 
and  could  not  possibly  hold  the  heavy  Colt  long 
enough  to  draw  a  bead. 

"  And  where  is  your  God  now  ? "  he  taunted,  as 
he  gave  the  wounded  man  the  revolver. 
And   Uri  answered:    "God   has  not  yet   spoken. 
Prepare  that  He  may  speak." 

Fortune  faced  him,  but  twisted  his  chest  side- 
ways in  order  to  present  less  surface.  Uri  tot- 
tered about  drunkenly,  but  waited,  too,  for  the 
moment's  calm  between  the  catspaws.  The  re- 
volver was  very  heavy,  and  he  doubted,  like 
Fortune,  because  of  its  weight.  But  he  held 
it,  arm  extended,  above  his  head,  and  then  let 
it  slowly  drop  forward  and  down.  At  the  in- 
stant Fortune's  left  breast  and  the  sight  flashed 
into  line  with  his  eye,  he  pulled  the  trigger. 
Fortune  did  not  whirl,  but  gay  San  Francisco 
dimmed  and  faded,  and  as  the  sun-bright  snow 
turned  black  and  blacker,  he  breathed  his  last 
malediction  on  the  Chance  he  had  misplayed. 


Siwash 

"  "  r  F  I  was  a  man  —  "      Her  words  were  in 

themselves   indecisive,  but   the  withering 

contempt    which    flashed   from  her  black 

eyes    was    not    lost    upon    the    men-folk    in   the 

tent. 

Tommy,  the  English  sailor,  squirmed,  but  chiv- 
alrous old  Dick  Humphries,  Cornish  fisherman 
and  erstwhile  American  salmon  capitalist,  beamed 
upon  her  benevolently  as  ever.  He  bore  women 
too  large  a  portion  of  his  rough  heart  to  mind 
them,  as  he  said,  when  they  were  in  the  doldrums, 
or  when  their  limited  vision  would  not  permit 
them  to  see  all  around  a  thing.  So  they  said 
nothing,  these  two  men  who  had  taken  the  half- 
frozen  woman  into  their  tent  three  days  back,  and 
who  had  warmed  her,  and  fed  her,  and  rescued  her 
goods  from  the  Indian  packers.  This  latter  had 


Si  wash  87 

necessitated  the  payment  of  numerous  dollars,  to 
say  nothing  of  a  demonstration  in  force  —  Dick 
Humphries  squinting  along  the  sights  of  a  Win- 
chester while  Tommy  apportioned  their  wages 
among  them  at  his  own  appraisement.  It  had 
been  a  little  thing  in  itself,  but  it  meant  much  to 
a  woman  playing  a  desperate  single-hand  in  the 
equally  desperate  Klondike  rush  of  '97.  Men 
were  occupied  with  their  own  pressing  needs,  nor 
did  they  approve  of  women  playing,  single-handed, 
the  odds  of  the  arctic  winter. 

u  If  I  was  a  man,  I  know  what  I  would  do." 
Thus  reiterated  Molly,  she  of  the  flashing  eyes, 
and  therein  spoke  the  cumulative  grit  of  five 
American-born  generations. 

In  the  succeeding  silence,  Tommy  thrust  a  pan 
of  biscuits  into  the  Yukon  stove  and  piled  on  fresh 
fuel.  A  reddish  flood  pounded  along  under  his 
sun-tanned  skin,  and  as  he  stooped,  the  skin  of  his 
neck  was  scarlet.  Dick  palmed  a  three-cornered 
sail  needle  through  a  set  of  broken  pack  straps,  his 
good  nature  in  nowise  disturbed  by  the  feminine 


88  Siwash 

cataclysm  which  was  threatening  to  burst  in  the 

storm-beaten  tent. 

u  And  if  you  was  a  man  ?  "  he  asked,  his  voice 

vibrant  with  kindness.     The  three-cornered  needle 

jammed  in  the   damp  leather,  and    he    suspended 

work  for  the  moment. 

"  I  'd    be    a    man.     I  'd    put    the    straps    on    my 

back    and  light    out.     I    would  n't    lay  in    camp 

here,  with  the  Yukon  like  to  freeze  most  any  day, 

and  the    goods  not  half   over  the   portage.     Arid 

you  —  you    are    men,   and    you    sit   here,  holding 

your  hands,  afraid  of  a  little  wind  and  wet.     I  tell 

you   straight,  Yankee-men  are   made  of  different 

stuff.     They  'd  be  hitting  the  trail  for  Dawson  if 

they  had  to    wade    through    hell-fire.     And   you, 

you —     I   wish   I   was   a   man." 

"  I  'm    very    glad,    my    dear,    that    you  're    not." 

Dick  Humphries  threw  the  bight  of  the  sail  twine 

over  the  point  of  the  needle  and  drew  it  clear  with 

a  couple  of  deft  turns  and  a  jerk. 

A  snort  of  the  gale  dealt  the  tent  a  broad-handed 

slap  as  it  hurtled  past,  and  the  sleet   rat-tat-tatted 


Siwash  89 

with  snappy  spite  against  the  thin  canvas.  The 
smoke,  smothered  in  its  exit,  drove  back  through 
the  fire-box  door,  carrying  with  it  the  pungent 
odor  of  green  spruce. 

"  Good  Gawd  !  Why  can't  a  woman  listen  to 
reason  ?  "  Tommy  lifted  his  head  from  the  den- 
ser depths  and  turned  upon  her  a  pair  of  smoke- 
outraged  eyes. 

"  And  why  can't  a  man  show  his  manhood  ?  " 
Tommy    sprang  to   his   feet  with  an    oath   which 
would    have    shocked    a  woman    of   lesser    heart, 
ripped  loose  the  sturdy  reef-knots   and  flung  back 
the  flaps  of  the  tent. 

The  trio  peered  out.  It  was  not  a  heartening 
spectacle.  A  few  water-soaked  tents  formed  the 
miserable  foreground,  from  which  the  streaming 
ground  sloped  to  a  foaming  gorge.  Down  this 
ramped  a  mountain  torrent.  Here  and  there, 
dwarf  spruce,  rooting  and  grovelling  in  the  shallow 
alluvium,  marked  the  proximity  of  the  timber  line. 
Beyond,  on  the  opposing  slope,  the  vague  outlines 
of  a  glacier  loomed  dead-white  through  the  driving 


90  Si  wash 

rain.  Even  as  they  looked,  its  massive  front 
crumbled  into  the  valley,  on  the  breast  of  some 
subterranean  vomit,  and  it  lifted  its  hoarse  thunder 
above  the  screeching  voice  of  the  storm.  Invol- 
untarily, Molly  shrank  back. 

"  Look,  woman  !  Look  with  all  your  eyes  ! 
Three  miles  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale  to  Crater 
Lake,  across  two  glaciers,  along  the  slippery  rim- 
rock,  knee-deep  in  a  howling  river !  Look,  I  say, 
you  Yankee  woman  !  Look  !  There  's  your  Yan- 
kee-men ! "  Tommy  pointed  a  passionate  hand 
in  the  direction  of  the  struggling  tents.  "  Yan- 
kees, the  last  mother's  son  of  them.  Are  they  on 
trail  ?  Is  there  one  of  them  with  the  straps  to  his 
back  ?  And  you  would  teach  us  men  our  work  ? 
Look,  I  say ! " 

Another  tremendous  section  of  the  glacier  rum- 
bled earthward.  The  wind  whipped  in  at  the 
open  doorway,  bulging  out  the  sides  of  the  tent  till 
it  swayed  like  a  huge  bladder  at  its  guy  ropes. 
The  smoke  swirled  about  them,  and  the  sleet 
drove  sharply  into  their  flesh.  Tommy  pulled 


Siwash  9 1 

the  flaps  together  hastily,  and  returned  to  his  tear- 
ful task  at  the  fire-box.  Dick  Humphries  threw 
the  mended  pack  straps  into  a  corner  and  lighted 
his  pipe.  Even  Molly  was  for  the  moment 
persuaded. 

"  There  's  my  clothes,"  she  half-whimpered,  the 
feminine  for  the  moment  prevailing.  "They're 
right  at  the  top  of  the  cache,  and  they  '11  be 
ruined  !  I  tell  you,  ruined  !  " 
"There,  there,"  Dick  interposed,  when  the  last 
quavering  syllable  had  wailed  itself  out.  "  Don't 
let  that  worry  you,  little  woman.  I  'm  old  enough 
to  be  your  father's  brother,  and  I  've  a  daughter 
older  than  you,  and  I  '11  tog  you  out  in  fripperies 
when  we  get  to  Dawson  if  it  takes  my  last 
dollar." 

"  When  we  get  to  Dawson  !  "  The  scorn  had 
come  back  to  her  throat  with  a  sudden  surge. 
"  You  '11  rot  on  the  way,  first.  You  '11  drown  in 
a  mudhole.  You  —  you  —  Britishers  !  " 
The  last  word,  explosive,  intensive,  had  strained 
the  limits  of  her  vituperation.  If  that  would  not 


92  Siwash 

stir  these  men,  what  could  ?  Tommy's  neck  ran 
red  again,  but  he  kept  his  tongue  between  his 
teeth.  Dick's  eyes  mellowed.  He  had  the  ad- 
vantage over  Tommy,  for  he  had  once  had  a  white 
woman  for  a  wife. 

The  blood  of  five  American-born  generations  is, 
under  certain  circumstances,  an  uncomfortable  heri- 
tage ;  and  among  these  circumstances  might  be 
enumerated  that  of  being  quartered  with  next  of 
kin.  These  men  were  Britons.  On  sea  and  land 
her  ancestry  and  the  generations  thereof  had 
thrashed  them  and  theirs.  On  sea  and  land  they 
would  continue  to  do  so.  The  traditions  of  her 
race  clamored  for  vindication.  She  was  but  a 
woman  of  the  present,  but  in  her  bubbled  the 
whole  mighty  past.  It  was  not  alone  Molly  Tra- 
vis who  pulled  on  gum  boots,  mackintosh,  and 
straps  ;  for  the  phantom  hands  of  ten  thousand 
forbears  drew  tight  the  buckles,  just  so  as  they 
squared  her  jaw  and  set  her  eyes  with  determi- 
nation. She,  Molly  Travis,  intended  to  shame 
these  Britishers;  they,  the  innumerable  shades, 


Siwash  93 

were  asserting  the  dominance  of  the  common 
race. 

The  men-folk  did  not  interfere.  Once  Dick 
suggested  that  she  take  his  oilskins,  as  her  mack- 
intosh was  worth  no  more  than  paper  in  such  a 
storm.  But  she  sniffed  her  independence  so 
sharply  that  he  communed  with  his  pipe  till  she 
tied  the  flaps  on  the  outside  and  slushed  away  on 
the  flooded  trail. 

"Think  she'll  make  it?"  Dick's  face  belied 
the  indifference  of  his  voice. 

"  Make  it  ?  If  she  stands  the  pressure  till  she 
gets  to  the  cache,  what  of  the  cold  and  misery, 
she  '11  be  stark,  raving  mad.  Stand  it  ?  She  '11 
be  dumb-crazed.  You  know  it  yourself,  Dick. 
You've  wind-jammed  round  the  Horn.  You 
know  what  it  is  to  lay  out  on  a  topsail  yard  in  the 
thick  of  it,  bucking  sleet  and  snow  and  frozen 
canvas  till  you  're  ready  to  just  let  go  and  cry  like 
a  baby.  Clothes  ?  She  won't  be  able  to  tell  a 
bundle  of  skirts  from  a  gold  pan  or  a  tea- 
kettle." 


94  Siwash 

"  Kind  of  think  we  were  wrong  in  letting  her 
go,  then  ?  " 

u  Not  a  bit  of  it.  So  help  me,  Dick,  she  'd  'a' 
made  this  tent  a  hell  for  the  rest  of  the  trip  if  we 
had  n't.  Trouble  with  her  she 's  got  too  much 
spirit.  This  '11  tone  it  down  a  bit." 
"  Yes,"  Dick  admitted,  "  she  's  too  ambitious. 
But  then  Molly  's  all  right.  A  cussed  little  fool 
to  tackle  a  trip  like  this,  but  a  plucky  sight  better 
than  those  pick-me-up-and-carry-me  kind  of  wo- 
men. She 's  the  stock  that  carried  you  and  me, 
Tommy,  and  you  've  got  to  make  allowance  for 
the  spirit.  Takes  a  woman  to  breed  a  man. 
You  can't  suck  manhood  from  the  dugs  of  a 
creature  whose  only  claim  to  womanhood  is  her 
petticoats.  Takes  a  she-cat,  not  a  cow,  to  mother 
a  tiger." 

"  And  when  they  're  unreasonable  we  've  got  to 
put  up  with  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  The  proposition.  A  sharp  sheath-knife  cuts 
deeper  on  a  slip  than  a  dull  one  ;  but  that 's  no 
reason  for  to  hack  the  edge  off  over  a  capstan  bar." 


Si  wash  95 

"  All  right,  if  you  say  so,  but  when  it  comes  to 

woman,  I  guess  I  '11  take  mine  with  a  little   less 

edge." 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  Dick  demanded. 

u  Some."     Tommy   reached    over   for   a    pair    of 

Molly's  wet  stockings  and  stretched  them   across 

his  knees  to  dry. 

Dick,    eying    him    querulously,    went    fishing    in 

her  hand  satchel,  then  hitched  up  to  the  front  of 

the    stove  with   divers  articles   of   damp   clothing 

spread  likewise  to  the  heat. 

"  Thought   you   said   you   never   were  married  ?  " 

he  asked. 

"Did   I?    No    more    was    I  —  that   is  —  yes,  by 

Gawd !    I  was.     And  as  good  a  woman   as  ever 

cooked  grub  for  a  man." 

"  Slipped  her  moorings  ?  "  Dick  symbolized  infinity 

with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 

"  Ay." 

"  Childbirth,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

The  beans  bubbled  rowdily  on  the  front  lid,  and 

he  pushed  the  pot  back  to  a  cooler  surface.     After 


96  Si  wash 

that  he  investigated  the  biscuits,  tested  them  with 
a  splinter  of  wood,  and  placed  them  aside  under 
cover  of  a  damp  cloth.  Dick,  after  the  manner 
of  his  kind,  stifled  his  interest  and  waited  silently. 
"  A  different  woman  to  Molly.  Siwash." 
Dick  nodded  his  understanding. 
"  Not  so  proud  and  wilful,  but  stick  by  a  fellow 
through  thick  and  thin.  Sling  a  paddle  with  the 
next  and  starve  as  contentedly  as  Job.  Go  for'ard 
when  the  sloop's  nose  was  more  often  under  than 
not,  and  take  in  sail  like  a  man.  Went  prospect- 
ing once,  up  Teslin  way,  past  Surprise  Lake  and 
the  Little  Yellow-Head.  Grub  gave  out,  and  we 
ate  the  dogs.  Dogs  gave  out,  and  we  ate  harnesses, 
moccasins,  and  furs.  Never  a  whimper;  never  a 
pick-me-up-and-carry-me.  Before  we  went  she 
said  look  out  for  grub,  but  when  it  happened,  never 
a  I-told-you-so.  '  Never  mind,  Tommy/  she  'd 
say,  day  after  day,  that  weak  she  could  bare  lift 
a  snow-shoe  and  her  feet  raw  with  the  work. 
c  Never  mind.  I  'd  sooner  be  flat-bellied  of  hunger 
and  be  your  woman,  Tommy,  than  have  a  potlacb 


Siwash  97 

every  day  and  be  Chief  George's  klooch.'  George 
was  chief  of  the  Chilcoots,  you  know,  and  wanted 
her  bad. 

"  Great  days,  those*  Was  a  likely  chap  myself 
when  I  struck  the  coast.  Jumped  a  whaler,  the 
Pole  Star,  at  Unalaska,  and  worked  my  way  down 
to  Sitka  on  an  otter  hunter.  Picked  up  with 
Happy  Jack  there  —  know  him  ?  " 
"  Had  charge  of  my  traps  for  me,"  Dick  an- 
swered, "  down  on  the  Columbia.  Pretty  wild, 
was  n't  he,  with  a  warm  place  in  his  heart  for 
whiskey  and  women  ?  " 

"The  very  chap.  Went  trading  with  him  for 
a  couple  of  seasons  —  hooch,  and  blankets,  and 
such  stuff.  Then  got  a  sloop  of  my  own,  and  not 
to  cut  him  out,  came  down  Juneau  way.  That 's 
where  I  met  Killisnoo ;  I  called  her  Tilly  for  short. 
Met  her  at  a  squaw  dance  down  on  the  beach. 
Chief  George  had  finished  the  year's  trade  with  the 
Sticks  over  the  Passes,  and  was  down  from  Dyea 
with  half  his  tribe.  No  end  of  Siwashes  at  the 
dance,  and  I  the  only  white.  No  one  knew  me, 
7 


98  Si  wash 

barring  a  few  of  the  bucks  I  'd  met  over  Sitka 
way,  but  I  'd  got  most  of  their  histories  from 
Happy  Jack. 

"  Everybody  talking  Chinook,  not  guessing  that 
I  could  spit  it  better  than  most ;  and  principally 
two  girls  who  'd  run  away  from  Maine's  Mission 
up  the  Lynn  Canal.  They  were  trim  creatures, 
good  to  the  eye,  and  I  kind  of  thought  of  casting 
that  way ;  but  they  were  fresh  as  fresh-caught  cod. 
Too  much  edge,  you  see.  Being  a  new-comer, 
they  started  to  twist  me,  not  knowing  I  gathered 
in  every  word  of  Chinook  they  uttered. 
"  I  never  let  on,  but  set  to  dancing  with  Tilly, 
and  the  more  we  danced  the  more  our  hearts 
warmed  to  each  other.  *  Looking  for  a  woman,' 
one  of  the  girls  says,  and  the  other  tosses  her  head 
and  answers,  'Small  chance  he  '11  get  one  when  the 
women  are  looking  for  men.'  And  the  bucks  and 
squaws  standing  around  began  to  grin  and  giggle 
and  repeat  what  had  been  said.  c  Quite  a  pretty 
boy,'  says  the  first  one.  I  '11  not  deny  I  was 
rather  smooth-faced  and  youngish,  but  I  'd  been 


Siwash  99 

a  man  amongst  men  many  's  the  day,  and  it  rankled 
me.  c  Dancing  with  Chief  George's  girl,'  pipes 
the  second.  c  First  thing  George  '11  give  him  the 
flat  of  a  paddle  and  send  him  about  his  business.' 
Chief  George  had  been  looking  pretty  black  up  to 
now,  but  at  this  he  laughed  and  slapped  his  knees. 
He  was  a  husky  beggar  and  would  have  used  the 
paddle  too. 

" '  Who  's  the  girls  ? '  I  asked  Tilly,  as  we  went 
ripping  down  the  centre  in  a  reel.  And  as  soon 
as  she  told  me  their  names  I  remembered  all  about 
them  from  Happy  Jack.  Had  their  pedigree  down 
fine  —  several  things  he  'd  told  me  that  not  even 
their  own  tribe  knew.  But  I  held  my  hush,  and 
went  on  courting  Tilly,  they  a-casting  sharp 
remarks  and  everybody  roaring.  '  Bide  a  wee, 
Tommy,'  I  says  to  myself;  '  bide  a  wee.' 
"  And  bide  I  did,  till  the  dance  was  ripe  to 
break  up,  and  Chief  George  had  brought  a  paddle 
all  ready  for  me.  Everybody  was  on  the  lookout 
for  mischief  when  we  stopped  ;  but  I  marched, 
easy  as  you  please,  slap  into  the  thick  of  them. 


i  oo  Siwash 

The  Mission  girls  cut  me  up  something  clever, 
and  for  all  I  was  angry  I  had  to  set  my  teeth 
to  keep  from  laughing.  I  turned  upon  them 
suddenly. 

"  4  Are  you  done  ? '  I  asked. 

"You  should  have  seen  them  when  they  heard 
me  spitting  Chinook.  Then  I  broke  loose.  I 
told  them  all  about  themselves,  and  their  people 
before  them ;  their  fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers 
—  everybody,  everything.  Each  mean  trick  they'd 
played;  every  scrape  they'd  got  into;  every  shame 
that  'd  fallen  them.  And  I  burned  them  without 
fear  or  favor.  All  hands  crowded  round.  Never 
had  they  heard  a  white  man  sling  their  lingo  as 
I  did.  Everybody  was  laughing  save  the  Mission 
girls.  Even  Chief  George  forgot  the  paddle,  or 
at  least  he  was  swallowing  too  much  respect  to 
dare  to  use  it. 

"  But  the  girls.  c  Oh,  don't,  Tommy,'  they 
cried,  the  tears  running  down  their  cheeks. 
4 Please  don't.  We'll  be  good.  Sure,  Tommy, 
sure.'  But  I  knew  them  well,  and  I  scorched 


Si  wash  i  o  i 

them  on  every  tender  spot.  Nor  did  I  slack  away 
till  they  came  down  on  their  knees,  begging  and 
pleading  with  me  to  keep  quiet.  Then  I  shot  a 
glance  at  Chief  George;  but  he  did  not  know 
whether  to  have  at  me  or  not,  and  passed  it  off 
by  laughing  hollowly. 

"  So  be.  When  I  passed  the  parting  with  Tilly  that 
night  I  gave  her  the  word  that  I  was  going  to  be 
around  for  a  week  or  so,  and  that  I  wanted  to  see 
more  of  her.  Not  thick-skinned,  her  kind,  when 
it  came  to  showing  like  and  dislike,  and  she  looked 
her  pleasure  for  the  honest  girl  she  was.  Ay, 
a  striking  lass,  and  I  did  n't  wonder  that  Chief 
George  was  taken  with  her. 

u  Everything  my  way.  Took  the  wind  from 
his  sails  on  the  first  leg.  I  was  for  getting  her 
aboard  and  sailing  down  Wrangel  way  till  it  blew 
over,  leaving  him  to  whistle ;  but  I  was  n't  to  get 
her  that  easy.  Seems  she  was  living  with  an  uncle 
of  hers  —  guardian,  the  way  such  things  go  —  and 
seems  he  was  nigh  to  shuffling  off  with  consump- 
tion or  some  sort  of  lung  trouble.  He  was  good 


102  Si  wash 

and  bad  by  turns,  and  she  would  n't  leave  him 
till  it  was  over  with.  Went  up  to  the  tepee  just 
before  I  left,  to  speculate  on  how  long  it  'd  be  ; 
but  the  old  beggar  had  promised  her  to  Chief 
George,  and  when  he  clapped  eyes  on  me  his 
anger  brought  on  a  hemorrhage. 
" c  Come  and  take  me,  Tommy,'  she  says  when 
we  bid  good-by  on  the  beach.  '  Ay,'  I  answers ; 
c  when  you  give  the  word.'  And  I  kissed  her, 
white-man-fashion  and  lover-fashion,  till  she  was 
all  of  a  tremble  like  a  quaking  aspen,  and  I  was 
so  beside  myself  I  'd  half  a  mind  to  go  up  and 
give  the  uncle  a  lift  over  the  divide. 
u  So  I  went  down  Wrangel  way,  past  St. 
Mary's  and  even  to  the  Queen  Charlottes,  trad- 
ing, running  whiskey,  turning  the  sloop  to  most 
anything.  Winter  was  on,  stiff  and  crisp,  and 
I  was  back  to  Juneau,  when  the  word  came. 
c  Come,'  the  beggar  says  who  brought  the  news. 
c  Killisnoo  say,  "  Come  now."  '  What 's  the 
row? 'I  asks.  'Chief  George,' says  he.  ^Potlacb. 
Killisnoo,  makum  klooch? 


Si  wash  103 

"Ay,  it  was  bitter  —  the  Taku  howling  down 
out  of  the  north,  the  salt  water  freezing  quick 
as  it  struck  the  deck,  and  the  old  sloop  and  I  ham- 
mering into  the  teeth  of  it  for  a  hundred  miles  to 
Dyea.  Had  a  Douglass  Islander  for  crew  when 
I  started,  but  midway  up  he  was  washed  over  from 
the  bows.  Jibed  all  over  and  crossed  the  course 
three  times,  but  never  a  sign  of  him." 
"  Doubled  up  with  the  cold  most  likely,"  Dick 
suggested,  putting  a  pause  into  the  narrative  while 
he  hung  one  of  Molly's  skirts  up  to  dry,  "and 
went  down  like  a  pot  of  lead." 
"  My  idea.  So  I  finished  the  course  alone,  half- 
dead  when  I  made  Dyea  in  the  dark  of  the  even- 
ing. The  tide  favored,  and  I  ran  the  sloop  plump 
to  the  bank,  in  the  shelter  of  the  river.  Could  n't 
go  an  inch  further,  for  the  fresh  water  was  frozen 
solid.  Halyards  and  blocks  were  that  iced  up  I 
did  n't  dare  lower  mainsail  or  jib.  First  I  broached 
a  pint  of  the  cargo  raw,  and  then,  leaving  all  stand- 
ing, ready  for  the  start,  and  with  a  blanket  around 
me,  headed  across  the  flat  to  the  camp.  No  mis- 


1 04  Siwash 

taking,  it  was  a  grand  layout.  The  Chilcats  had 
come  in  a  body  —  dogs,  babies,  and  canoes  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  Dog-Ears,  the  Little  Salmons, 
and  the  Missions.  Full  half  a  thousand  of  them 
to  celebrate  Tilly's  wedding,  and  never  a  white 
man  in  a  score  of  miles. 

"  Nobody  took  note  of  me,  the  blanket  over  .my 
head  and  hiding  my  face,  and  I  waded  knee  deep 
through  the  dogs  and  youngsters  till  I  was  well  up 
to  the  front.  The  show  was  being  pulled  off  in 
a  big  open  place  among  the  trees,  with  great  fires 
burning  and  the  snow  moccasin-packed  as  hard  as 
Portland  cement.  Next  me  was  Tilly,  beaded  and 
scarlet-clothed  galore,  and  against  her  Chief  George 
and  his  head  men.  The  shaman  was  being  helped 
out  by  the  big  medicines  from  the  other  tribes,  and 
it  shivered  my  spine  up  and  down,  the  deviltries 
they  cut.  I  caught  myself  wondering  if  the  folks 
in  Liverpool  could  only  see  me  now ;  and  I 
thought  of  yellow-haired  Gussie,  whose  brother  I 
licked  after  my  first  voyage,  just  because  he  was 
not  for  having  a  sailor-man  courting  his  sister.  And 


Siwash  105 

with  Gussie  in  my  eyes  I  looked  at  Tilly.  A  rum 
old  world,  thinks  I,  with  man  a-stepping  in  trails 
the  mother  little  dreamed  of  when  he  lay  at  suck. 
u  So  be.  When  the  noise  was  loudest,  walrus 
hides  booming  and  priests  a-singing,  I  says,  '  Are 
you  ready  ? '  Gawd  !  Not  a  start,  not  a  shot  of 
the  eyes  my  way,  not  the  twitch  of  a  muscle. 
'  I  knew/  she  answers,  slow  and  steady  as  a  calm 
spring  tide.  '  Where  ? '  c  The  high  bank  at  the 
edge  of  the  ice,'  I  whispers  back.  *•  Jump  out 
when  I  give  the  word.' 

"  Did  I  say  there  was  no  end  of  huskies  ?  Well, 
there  was  no  end.  Here,  there,  everywhere, 
they  were  scattered  about,  —  tame  wolves  and 
nothing  less.  When  the  strain  runs  thin  they 
breed  them  in  the  bush  with  the  wild,  and  they  're 
bitter  fighters.  Right  at  the  toe  of  my  moccasin 
lay  a  big  brute,  and  by  the  heel  another.  I  doubled 
the  first  one's  tail,  quick,  till  it  snapped  in  my  grip. 
As  his  jaws  clipped  together  where  my  hand  should 
have  been,  I  threw  the  second  one  by  the  scruff 
straight  into  his  mouth.  c  Go  ! '  I  cried  to  Tilly. 


1 06  Si  wash 

u  You  know  how  they  fight.  In  the  wink  of 
an  eye  there  was  a  raging  hundred  of  them,  top  and 
bottom,  ripping  and  tearing  each  other,  kids  and 
squaws  tumbling  which  way,  and  the  camp  gone 
wild.  Tilly  'd  slipped  away,  so  I  followed.  But 
when  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  at  the  skirt  of  the 
crowd,  the  devil  laid  me  by  the  heart,  and  I  dropped 
the  blanket  and  went  back. 

"  By  then  the  dogs  'd  been  knocked  apart  and 
the  crowd  was  untangling  itself.  Nobody  was  in 
proper  place,  so  they  did  n't  note  that  Tilly  'd  gone. 
'  Hello,'  I  says,  gripping  Chief  George  by  the 
hand.  '  May  your  potlach-smoke  rise  often,  and 
the  Sticks  bring  many  furs  with  the  spring.' 
"Lord  love  me,  Dick,  but  he  was  joyed  to  see 
me,  —  him  with  the  upper  hand  and  wedding  Tilly. 
Chance  to  puff  big  over  me.  The  tale  that  I  was 
hot  after  her  had  spread  through  the  camps,  and 
my  presence  did  him  proud.  All  hands  knew  me, 
without  my  blanket,  and  set  to  grinning  and  gig- 
gling. It  was  rich,  but  I  made  it  richer  by  playing 
unbeknowing. 


Siwash  1 07 

"  c  What 's  the  row  ? '  I   asks.     '  Who 's   getting 
married  now  ? ' 

"  '  Chief  George,'  the  shaman  says,  ducking  his 
reverence  to  him. 
"  '  Thought  he  had  two  kloockes.' 
"  '  Him    takum     more,  —  three,'     with     another 
duck. 

" '  Oh  ! '     And  I  turned  away  as  though  it  did  n't 
interest  me. 

"  But    this    would  n't    do,    and    everybody   begins 
singing  out,  c  Killisnoo  !   Killisnoo  !  ' 
"  '  Killisnoo  what  ? '   I  asked. 

"  c  Killisnoo,  klooch^  Chief  George,'  they  blathered. 
c  Killisnoo,  kloock.* 

u  I  jumped  and  looked  at  Chief  George.  He 
nodded  his  head  and  threw  out  his  chest. 
" '  She  '11  be  no  klooch  of  yours,'  I  says  solemnly. 
c  No  klooch  of  yours,'  I  repeats,  while  his  face  went 
black  and  his  hand  began  dropping  to  his  hunting- 
knife. 

"  c  Look  !  '    I    cries,    striking    an    attitude.     '  Big 
medicine.     You  watch  my  smoke.' 


io8  Si  wash 

u  I  pulled  off  my  mittens,  rolled  back  my  sleeves, 
and  made  half-a-dozen  passes  in  the  air. 
"  c  Killisnoo ! '  I  shouts.  '  Killisnoo  !  Killisnoo  ! ' 
u  I  was  making  medicine,  and  they  began  to 
scare.  Every  eye  was  on  me ;  no  time  to  find 
out  that  Tilly  was  n't  there.  Then  I  called  Kill- 
isnoo three  times  again,  and  waited ;  and  three 
times  more.  All  for  mystery  and  to  make  them 
nervous.  Chief  George  could  n't  guess  what 
I  was  up  to,  and  wanted  to  put  a  stop  to  the 
foolery ;  but  the  shamans  said  to  wait,  and  that 
they  'd  see  me  and  go  me  one  better,  or  words 
to  that  effect.  Besides,  he  was  a  superstitious 
cuss,  and  I  fancy  a  bit  afraid  of  the  white  man's 
magic. 

"Then  I  called  Killisnoo,  long  and  soft  like  the 
howl  of  a  wolf,  till  the  women  were  all  a-tremble 
and  the  bucks  looking  serious. 

" '  Look !  '  I  sprang  for'ard,  pointing  my  finger 
into  a  bunch  of  squaws  —  easier  to  deceive  women 
than  men,  you  know.  '  Look  !  '  And  I  raised 
it  aloft  as  though  following  the  flight  of  a  bird. 


Si  wash  109 

Up,  up,  straight  overhead,  making  to  follow  it  with 
my  eyes  till  it  disappeared  in  the  sky. 
" c  Killisnoo,'  I  said,  looking  at  Chief  George 
and  pointing  upward  again.  c  Killisnoo.' 
"  So  help  me,  Dick,  the  gammon  worked. 
Half  of  them,  at  least,  saw  Tilly  disappear  in  the 
air.  They'd  drunk  my  whiskey  at  Juneau  and 
seen  stranger  sights,  I  '11  warrant.  Why  should  I 
not  do  this  thing,  I,  who  sold  bad  spirits  corked  in 
bottles  ?  Some  of  the  women  shrieked.  Every- 
body fell  to  whispering  in  bunches.  I  folded  my 
arms  and  held  my  head  high,  and  they  drew  further 
away  from  me.  The  time  was  ripe  to  go,  '  Grab 
him,'  Chief  George  cries.  Three  or  four  of  them 
came  at  me,  but  I  whirled,  quick,  made  a  couple 
of  passes  like  to  send  them  after  Tilly,  and  pointed 
up.  Touch  me  ?  Not  for  the  kingdoms  of  the 
earth.  Chief  George  harangued  them,  but  he 
could  n't  get  them  to  lift  a  leg.  Then  he  made  to 
take  me  himself;  but  I  repeated  the  mummery  and 
his  grit  went  out  through  his  fingers. 
u  c  Let  your  shamans  work  wonders  the  like 


1 1  o  Siwash 

of  which  I  have  done  this  night,'  I  says.  c  Let 
them  call  Killisnoo  down  out  of  the  sky  whither 
I  have  sent  her.'  But  the  priests  knew  their 
limits.  '  May  your  klooches  bear  you  sons  as  the 
spawn  of  the  salmon,'  I  says,  turning  to  go ;  '  and 
may  your  totem  pole  stand  long  in  the  land,  and 
the  smoke  of  your  camp  rise  always.' 
"  But  if  the  beggars  could  have  seen  me  hitting 
the  high  places  for  the  sloop  as  soon  as  I  was  clear 
of  them,  they  'd  thought  my  own  medicine  had  got 
after  me.  Tilly  'd  kept  warm  by  chopping  the  ice 
away,  and  was  all  ready  to  cast  off.  Gawd !  how 
we  ran  before  it,  the  Taku  howling  after  us  and 
the  freezing  seas  sweeping  over  at  every  clip. 
With  everything  battened  down,  me  a-steering  and 
Tilly  chopping  ice,  we  held  on  half  the  night,  till  I 
plumped  the  sloop  ashore  on  Porcupine  Island,  and 
we  shivered  it  out  on  the  beach;  blankets  wet, 
and  Tilly  drying  the  matches  on  her  breast. 
"  So  I  think  I  know  something  about  it.  Seven 
years,  Dick,  man  and  wife,. in  rough  sailing  and 
smooth.  And  then  she  died,  in  the  heart  of  the 


Siwash  1 1 1 

winter,  died  in  childbirth,  up  there  on  the  Chilcat 
Station.  She  held  my  hand  to  the  last,  the  ice 
creeping  up  inside  the  door  and  spreading  thick  on 
the  gut  of  the  window.  Outside,  the  lone  howl  of 
the  wolf  and  the  Silence ;  inside,  death  and  the 
Silence.  You  've  never  heard  the  Silence  yet, 
Dick,  and  Gawd  grant  you  don't  ever  have  to  hear 
it  when  you  sit  by  the  side  of  death.  Hear  it  ?  Ay, 
till  the  breath  whistles  like  a  siren,  and  the  heart 
booms,  booms,  booms,  like  the  surf  on  the  shore. 
"Siwash,  Dick,  but  a  woman.  White,  Dick, 
white,  clear  through.  Towards  the  last  she  says, 
c  Keep  my  feather  bed,  Tommy,  keep  it  always.' 
And  I  agreed.  Then  she  opened  her  eyes,  full 
with  the  pain.  '  I  've  been  a  good  woman  to  you, 
Tommy,  and  because  of  that  I  want  you  to  prom- 
ise —  to  promise  '  —  the  words  seemed  to  stick  in 
her  throat  —  '  that  when  you  marry,  the  woman  be 
white.  No  more  Siwash,  Tommy.  I  know. 
Plenty  white  women  down  to  Juneau  now.  I 
know.  Your  people  call  you  u  squaw-man,"  your 
women  turn  their  heads  to  the  one  side  on  the 


1 1 2  Siwash 

street,  and  you  do  not  go  to  their  cabins  like  other 
men.  Why  ?  Your  wife  Siwash.  Is  it  not  so  ? 
And  this  is  not  good.  Wherefore  I  die.  Promise 
me.  Kiss  me  in  token  of  your  promise/ 
"  I  kissed  her,  and  she  dozed  off,  whispering, 
c  It  is  good.'  At  the  end,  that  near  gone  my  ear 
was  at  her  lips,  she  roused  for  the  last  time.  '  Re- 
member, Tommy;  remember  my  feather  bed.' 
Then  she  died,  in  childbirth,  up  there  on  the 
Chilcat  Station." 

The  tent  heeled  over  and  half  flattened  before  the 
gale.  Dick  refilled  his  pipe,  while  Tommy  drew 
the  tea  and  set  it  aside  against  Molly's  return. 
And  she  of  the  flashing  eyes  and  Yankee  blood  ? 
Blinded,  falling,  crawling  on  hand  and  knee,  the 
wind  thrust  back  in  her  throat  by  the  wind,  she 
was  heading  for  the  tent.  On  her  shoulders  a 
bulky  pack  caught  the  full  fury  of  the  storm.  She 
plucked  feebly  at  the  knotted  flaps,  but  it  was 
Tommy  and  Dick  who  cast  them  loose.  Then 
she  set  her  soul  for  the  last  effort,  staggered  in,  and 
fell  exhausted  on  the  floor. 


Siwash  113 

Tommy  unbuckled  the  straps  and  took  the  pack 
from  her.  As  he  lifted  it  there  was  a  clanging  of 
pots  and  pans.  Dick,  pouring  out  a  mug  of 
whiskey,  paused  long  enough  to  pass  the  wink 
across  her  body.  Tommy  winked  back.  His 
lips  pursed  the  monosyllable,  u  clothes,"  but  Dick 
shook  his  head  reprovingly. 

"  Here,  little  woman,"  he  said,  after  she  had 
drunk  the  whiskey  and  straightened  up  a  bit. 
"  Here 's  some  dry  togs.  Climb  into  them. 
We  're  going  out  to  extra-peg  the  tent.  After 
that,  give  us  the  call,  and  we  '11  come  in  and  have 
dinner.  Sing  out  when  you  're  ready." 
"  So  help  me,  Dick,  that 's  knocked  the  edge  off 
her  for  the  rest  of  this  trip,"  Tommy  spluttered  as 
they  crouched  to  the  lee  of  the  tent. 
u  But  it 's  the  edge  is  her  saving  grace,"  Dick 
replied,  ducking  his  head  to  a  volley  of  sleet  that 
drove  around  a  corner  of  the  canvas.  "  The  edge 
that  you  and  I  've  got,  Tommy,  and  the  edge  of 

our  mothers  before  us." 

8 


The  Man  with  the  Gash 

JACOB  KENT  had  suffered  from  cupidity  all 
the  days  of  his  life.  This,  in  turn,  had 
engendered  a  chronic  distrustfulness,  and 
his  mind  and  character  had  become  so  warped 
that  he  was  a  very  disagreeable  man  to  deal  with. 
He  was  also  a  victim  to  somnambulic  propensi- 
ties, and  very  set  in  his  ideas.  He  had  been 
a  weaver  of  cloth  from  the  cradle,  until  the  fever 
of  Klondike  had  entered  his  blood  and  torn  him 
away  from  his  loom.  His  cabin  stood  midway 
between  Sixty  Mile  Post  and  the  Stuart  River ; 
and  men  who  made  it  a  custom  to  travel  the 
trail  to  Dawson,  likened  him  to  a  robber  baron, 
perched  in  his  fortress  and  exacting  toll  from 
the  caravans  that  used  his  ill-kept  roads.  Since 
a  certain  amount  of  history  was  required  in  the 
construction  of  this  figure,  the  less  cultured  way- 


The  Man  with  the  Gash        1 1 5 

farers  from  Stuart  River  were  prone  to  describe 
him  after  a  still  more  primordial  fashion,  in  which 
a  command  of  strong  adjectives  was  to  be  chiefly 
noted. 

This  cabin  was  not  his,  by  the  way,  having 
been  built  several  years  previously  by  a  couple 
of  miners  who  had  got  out  a  raft  of  logs  at  that 
point  for  a  grub-stake.  They  had  been  most  hos- 
pitable lads,  and,  after  they  abandoned  it,  travelers 
who  knew  the  route  made  it  an  object  to  arrive 
there  at  nightfall.  It  was  very  handy,  saving 
them  all  the  time  and  toil  of  pitching  camp ; 
and  it  was  an  unwritten  rule  that  the  last  man 
left  a  neat  pile  of  firewood  for  the  next  comer. 
Rarely  a  night  passed  but  from  half  a  dozen  to 
a  score  of  men  crowded  into  its  shelter.  Jacob 
Kent  noted  these  things,  exercised  squatter  sov- 
ereignty, and  moved  in.  Thenceforth,  the  weary 
travelers  were  mulcted  a  dollar  per  head  for  the 
privilege  of  sleeping  on  the  floor,  Jacob  Kent 
weighing  the  dust  and  never  failing  to  steal  the 
down-weight.  Besides,  he  so  contrived  that  his 


T  1 6       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

transient  guests  chopped  his  wood  for  him  and 
carried  his  water.  This  was  rank  piracy,  but  his 
victims  were  an  easy-going  breed,  and  while  they 
detested  him,  they  yet  permitted  him  to  flourish 
in  his  sins. 

One  afternoon  in  April  he  sat  by  his  door,  —  for 
all  the  world  like  a  predatory  spider,  —  marvelling 
at  the  heat  of  the  returning  sun,  and  keeping  an 
eye  on  the  trail  for  prospective  flies.  The  Yukon 
lay  at  his  feet,  a  sea  of  ice,  disappearing  around 
two  great  bends  to  the  north  and  south,  and 
stretching  an  honest  two  miles  from  bank  to  bank. 
Over  its  rough  breast  ran  the  sled-trail,  a  slender 
sunken  line,  eighteen  inches  wide  and  two  thou- 
sand miles  in  length,  with  more  curses  distributed 
to  the  linear  foot  than  any  other  road  in  or  out 
of  all  Christendom. 

Jacob  Kent  was  feeling  particularly  good  that 
afternoon.  The  record  had  been  broken  the 
previous  night,  and  he  had  sold  his  hospitality 
to  no  less  than  twenty-eight  visitors.  True,  it 
had  been  quite  uncomfortable,  and  four  had  snored 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       1 1 7 

beneath  his  bunk  all  night ;  but  then  it  had  added 
appreciable  weight  to  the  sack  in  which  he  kept 
his  gold  dust.  That  sack,  with  its  glittering 
yellow  treasure,  was  at  once  the  chief  delight 
and  the  chief  bane  of  his  existence.  Heaven  and 
hell  lay  within  its  slender  mouth.  In  the  nature 
of  things,  there  being  no  privacy  to  his  one- 
roomed  dwelling,  he  was  tortured  by  a  constant 
fear  of  theft.  It  would  be  very  easy  for  these 
bearded,  desperate-looking  strangers  to  make  away 
with  it.  Often  he  dreamed  that  such  was  the 
case,  and  awoke  in  the  grip  of  nightmare.  A 
select  number  of  these  robbers  haunted  him 
through  his  dreams,  and  he  came  to  know  them 
quite  well,  especially  the  bronzed  leader  with  the 
gash  on  his  right  cheek.  This  fellow  was  the 
most  persistent  of  the  lot,  and,  because  of  him, 
he  had,  in  his  waking  moments,  constructed 
several  score  of  hiding-places  in  and  about  the 
cabin.  After  a  concealment  he  would  breathe 
freely  again,  perhaps  for  several  nights,  only  to 
collar  the  Man  with  the  Gash  in  the  very  act 


1 1 8       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

of  unearthing  the  sack.  Then,  on  awakening  in 
the  midst  of  the  usual  struggle,  he  would  at  once 
get  up  and  transfer  the  bag  to  a  new  and  more 
ingenious  crypt.  It  was  not  that  he  was  the 
direct  victim  of  these  phantasms ;  but  he  believed 
in  omens  and  thought-transference,  and  he  deemed 
these  dream-robbers  to  be  the  astral  projection  of 
real  personages  who  happened  at  those  particular 
moments,  no  matter  where  they  were  in  the  flesh, 
to  be  harboring  designs,  in  the  spirit,  upon  his 
wealth.  So  he  continued  to  bleed  the  unfortu- 
nates who  crossed  his  threshold,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  add  to  his  trouble  with  every  ounce  that 
went  into  the  sack. 

As  he  sat  sunning  himself,  a  thought  came  to 
Jacob  Kent  that  brought  him  to  his  feet  with 
a  jerk.  The  pleasures  of  life  had  culminated  in 
the  continual  weighing  and  reweighing  of  his 
dust;  but  a  shadow  had  been  thrown  upon  this 
pleasant  avocation,  which  he  had  hitherto  failed 
to  brush  aside.  His  gold-scales  were  quite  small ; 
in  fact,  their  maximum  was  a  pound  and  a  half, 


The  Man  with  the  Gash  1 1 9 
— eighteen  ounces,  —  while  his  hoard  mounted  .up 
to  something  like  three  and  a  third  times  that. 
He  had  never  been  able  to  weigh  it  all  at  one 
operation,  and  hence  considered  himself  to  have 
been  shut  out  from  a  new  and  most  edifying 
coign  of  contemplation.  Being  denied  this,  half 
the  pleasure  of  possession  had  been  lost ;  nay,  he 
felt  that  this  miserable  obstacle  actually  minimized 
the  fact,  as  it  did  the  strength,  of  possession.  It 
was  the  solution  of  this  problem  flashing  across 
his  mind  that  had  just  brought  him  to  his  feet. 
He  searched  the  trail  carefully  in  either  direc- 
tion. There  was  nothing  in  sight,  so  he  went 
inside. 

In  a  few  seconds  he  had  the  table  cleared  away 
and  the  scales  set  up.  On  one  side  he  placed 
the  stamped  disks  to  the  equivalent  of  fifteen 
ounces,  and  balanced  it  with  dust  on  the  other. 
Replacing  the  weights  with  dust,  he  then  had 
thirty  ounces  precisely  balanced.  These,  in  turn, 
he  placed  together  on  one  side  and  again  bal- 
anced with  more  dust.  By  this  time  the  gold 


1 20       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

was  exhausted,  and  he  was  sweating  liberally. 
He  trembled  with  ecstasy,  ravished  beyond  meas- 
ure. Nevertheless  he  dusted  the  sack  thoroughly, 
to  the  last  least  grain,  till  the  balance  was  over- 
come and  one  side  of  the  scales  sank  to  the 
table.  Equilibrium,  however,  was  restored  by  the 
addition  of  a  pennyweight  and  five  grains  to 
the  opposite  side.  He  stood,  head  thrown  back, 
transfixed.  The  sack  was  empty,  but  the  poten- 
tiality of  the  scales  had  become  immeasurable. 
Upon  them  he  could  weigh  any  amount,  from 
the  tiniest  grain  to  pounds  upon  pounds.  Mam- 
mon laid  hot  fingers  on  his  heart.  The  sun 
swung  on  its  westering  way  till  it  flashed  through 
the  open  doorway,  full  upon  the  yellow-burdened 
scales.  The  precious  heaps,  like  the  golden  breasts 
of  a  bronze  Cleopatra,  flung  back  the  light  in  a 
mellow  glow.  Time  and  space  were  not. 
"  Gawd  blime  me !  but  you  'ave  the  makin'  of 
several  quid  there,  'aven't  you  ?  " 
Jacob  Kent  wheeled  about,  at  the  same  time 
reaching  for  his  double-barrelled  shot-gun,  which 


The  Man  with  the  Gash        121 

stood    handy.      But  when  his  eyes  lit  on  the  in- 
truder's face,  he  staggered  back  dizzily.     It  was 
the  face  of  the  Man  with  the   Gash  ! 
The  man  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"  Oh,    that 's    all     right,"     he    said,    waving    his 
hand     deprecatingly.      "  You    need  n't     think    as 
I  '11  'arm  you  or  your  blasted  dust. 
"  You  're  a  rum  'un,   you   are,"   he  added  reflec- 
tively, as  he  watched  the  sweat  pouring  from  off 
Kent's  face  and  the  quavering  of  his  knees. 
"  Wy  don't  you    pipe  up   an'    say    somethin'  ?  " 
he  went    on,  as    the  other   struggled    for    breath. 
"  Wot 's    gone    wrong   o'   your  gaff?     Anythink 
the  matter?" 

u  W  —  w  —  where  'd  you  get  it  ?  "  Kent  at  last 
managed  to  articulate,  raising  a  shaking  forefinger 
to  the  ghastly  scar  which  seamed  the  other's 
cheek. 

"Shipmate  stove  me  down  with  a  marlin-spike 
from  the  main-royal.  An'  now  as  you  'ave  your 
figger'ead  in  trim,  wot  I  want  to  know  is,  wot 's 
it  to  you  ?  That 's  wot  I  want  to  know  —  wot 's 


122        The  Man  with  the  Gash 

it   to  you  ?      Gawd    blime    me  !    do   it    'urt  you  ? 
Ain't    it    smug    enough    for    the    likes    o'    you  ? 
That 's  wot  I  want  to  know  !  " 
"No,  no,"  Kent  answered,  sinking  upon  a  stool 
with  a  sickly  grin.     u  I  was  just  wondering." 
"  Did    you    ever  see  the   like  ? "  the   other   went 
on  truculently. 
"No." 

"  Ain't  it  a  beute  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Kent  nodded  his  head  approvingly,  in- 
tent on  humoring  this  strange  visitor,  but  wholly 
unprepared  for  the  outburst  which  was  to  follow 
his  effort  to  be  agreeable. 

"  You  blasted,  bloomin',  burgoo-eatin'  son-of- 
a-sea-swab  !  Wot  do  you  mean,  a  sayin'  the 
most  onsightly  thing  Gawd  Almighty  ever  put  on 
the  face  o'  man  is  a  beute  ?  Wot  do  you  mean, 
you  —  " 

And  thereat  this  fiery  son  of  the  sea  broke  off 
into  a  string  of  Oriental  profanity,  mingling  gods 
and  devils,  lineages  and  men,  metaphors  and 
monsters,  with  so  savage  a  virility  that  Jacob 


The  Man  with  the  Gash        123 

Kent  was  paralyzed.  He  shrank  back,  his  arms 
lifted  as  though  to  ward  off  physical  violence. 
So  utterly  unnerved  was  he  that  the  other  paused 
in  the  mid-swing  of  a  gorgeous  peroration  and 
burst  into  thunderous  laughter. 
u  The  sun 's  knocked  the  bottom  out  o'  the 
trail,"  said  the  Man  with  the  Gash,  between 
departing  paroxysms  of  mirth.  "  An'  I  only  'ope 
as  you  '11  appreciate  the  hoppertunity  of  consortin' 
with  a  man  o'  my  mug.  Get  steam  up  in  that 
fire-box  o'  your'n.  I  'm  goin'  to  unrig  the  dogs 
an'  grub  'em.  An'  don't  be  shy  o'  the  wood,  my 
lad  j  there 's  plenty  more  where  that  come  from, 
and  it 's  you  've  got  the  time  to  sling  an  axe.  An' 
tote  up  a  bucket  o'  water  while  you  're  about  it. 
Lively  !  or  I  '11  run  you  down,  so  'elp  me  !  " 
Such  a  thing  was  unheard  of.  Jacob  Kent  was 
making  the  fire,  chopping  wood,  packing  water 
—  doing  menial  tasks  for  a  guest  !  When  Jim 
Cardegee  left  Dawson,  it  was  with  his  head  filled 
with  the  iniquities  of  this  roadside  Shylock  ;  and 
all  along  the  trail  his  numerous  victims  had  added 


1 24       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

to  the  sum  of  his  crimes.  Now,  Jim  Cardegee, 
with  the  sailor's  love  for  a  sailor's  joke,  had  deter- 
mined, when  he  pulled  into  the  cabin,  to  bring 
its  inmate  down  a  peg  or  so.  That  he  had  suc- 
ceeded beyond  expectation  he  could  not  help  but 
remark,  though  he  was  in  the  dark  as  to  the  part 
the  gash  on  his  cheek  had  played  in  it.  But 
while  he  could  not  understand,  he  saw  the  terror 
it  created,  and  resolved  to  exploit  it  as  remorse- 
lessly as  would  any  modern  trader  a  choice  bit 
of  merchandise. 

"  Strike  me  blind,  but  you  're  a  'ustler,"  he 
said  admiringly,  his  head  cocked  to  one  side,  as 
his  host  bustled  about.  "  You  never  'ort  to  'ave 
gone  Klondiking.  It 's  the  keeper  of  a  pub' 
you  was  laid  out  for.  An'  it 's  often  as  I  'ave 
'card  the  lads  up  an'  down  the  river  speak  o' 
you,  but  I  'ad  n't  no  idea  you  was  so  jolly 
nice." 

Jacob  Kent  experienced  a  tremendous  yearning 
to  try  his  shotgun  on  him,  but  the  fascination 
of  the  gash  was  too  potent.  This  was  the  real 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       125 

Man  with  the  Gash,  the  man  who  had  so  often 
robbed  him  in  the  spirit.  This,  then,  was  the 
embodied  entity  of  the  being  whose  astral  form 
had  been  projected  into  his  dreams,  the  man  who 
had  so  frequently  harbored  designs  against  his 
hoard ;  hence  —  there  could  be  no  other  conclu- 
sion—  this  Man  with  the  Gash  had  now  come 
in  the  flesh  to  dispossess  him.  And  that  gash  ! 
He  could  no  more  keep  his  eyes  from  it  than 
stop  the  beating  of  his  heart.  Try  as  he  would, 
they  wandered  back  to  that  one  point  as  inevitably 
as  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

"  Do  it  'urt  you  ? "  Jim  Cardegee  thundered 
suddenly,  looking  up  from  the  spreading  of  his 
blankets  and  encountering  the  rapt  gaze  of  the 
other.  "  It  strikes  me  as  'ow  it  'ud  be  the  proper 
thing  for  you  to  draw  your  jib,  douse  the  glim, 
an'  turn  in,  seein'  as  'ow  it  worrits  you.  Jes* 
lay  to  that,  you  swab,  or  so  'elp  me  I  '11  take  a 
pull  on  your  peak-purchases  !  " 
Kent  was  so  nervous  that  it  took  three  puff's  to 
blow  out  the  slush-lamp,  and  he  crawled  into  his 


1 26       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

blankets  without  even  removing  his  moccasins. 
The  sailor  was  soon  snoring  lustily  from  his  hard 
bed  on  the  floor,  but  Kent  lay  staring  up  into  the 
blackness,  one  hand  on  the  shotgun,  resolved  not 
to  close  his  eyes  the  whole  night.  He  had  not 
had  an  opportunity  to  secrete  his  five  pounds  of 
gold,  and  it  lay  in  the  ammunition  box  at  the  head 
of  his  bunk.  But,  try  as  he  would,  he  at  last 
dozed  off  with  the  weight  of  his  dust  heavy  on  his 
soul.  Had  he  not  inadvertently  fallen  asleep  with 
his  mind  in  such  condition,  the  somnambulic 
demon  would  not  have  been  invoked,  nor  would 
Jim  Cardegee  have  gone  mining  next  day  with  a 
dish-pan. 

The  fire  fought  a  losing  battle,  and  at  last  died 
away,  while  the  frost  penetrated  the  mossy  chinks 
between  the  logs  and  chilled  the  inner  atmos- 
phere. The  dogs  outside  ceased  their  howling, 
and,  curled  up  in  the  snow,  dreamed  of  salmon- 
stocked  heavens  where  dog-drivers  and  kindred 
task-masters  were  not.  Within,  the  sailor  lay 
like  a  log,  while  his  host  tossed  restlessly  about, 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       1 27 

the  victim  of  strange  fantasies.  As  midnight 
drew,  near  he  suddenly  threw  off  the  blankets  and 
got  up.  It  was  remarkable  that  he  could  do  what 
he  then  did  without  ever  striking  a  light.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  of  the  darkness  that  he  kept  his 
eyes  shut,  and  perhaps  it  was  for  fear  he  would  see 
the  terrible  gash  on  the  cheek  of  his  visitor ;  but, 
be  jhis  as  it  may,  it  is  a  fact  that,  unseeing,  he 
opened  his  ammunition  box,  put  a  heavy  charge 
into  the  muzzle  of  the  shotgun  without  spilling  a 
particle,  rammed  it  down  with  double  wads,  and 
then  put  everything  away  and  got  back  into  bed. 
Just  as  daylight  laid  its  steel-gray  fingers  on  the 
parchment  window,  Jacob  Kent  awoke.  Turning 
on  his  elbow,  he  raised  the  lid  and  peered  into  the 
ammunition  box.  Whatever  he  saw,  or  whatever 
he  did  not  see,  exercised  a  very  peculiar  effect 
upon  him,  considering  his  neurotic  temperament. 
He  glanced  at  the  sleeping  man  on  the  floor,  let 
the  lid  down  gently,  and  rolled  over  on  his  back. 
It  was  an  unwonted  calm  that  rested  on  his 
face.  Not  a  muscle  quivered.  There  was  not 


ia8       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

the  least  sign  of  excitement  or  perturbation.  He 
lay  there  a  long  while,  thinking,  and  when  he  got 
up  and  began  to  move  about,  it  was  in  a  cool, 
collected  manner,  without  noise  and  without 
hurry. 

It  happened  that  a  heavy  wooden  peg  had  been 
driven  into  the  ridge-pole  just  above  Jim  Carde- 
gee's  head.  Jacob  Kent,  working  softly,  ran  a 
piece  of  half-inch  manila  over  it,  bringing  both 
ends  to  the  ground.  One  end  he  tied  about  his 
waist,  and  in  the  other  he  rove  a  running  noose. 
Then  he  cocked  his  shotgun  and  laid  it  within 
reach,  by  the  side  of  numerous  moose-hide  thongs. 
By  an  effort  of  will  he  bore  the  sight  of  the  scar, 
slipped  the  noose  over  the  sleeper's  head,  and  drew 
it  taut  by  throwing  back  on  his  weight,  at  the 
same  time  seizing  the  gun  and  bringing  it  to 
bear. 

Jim    Cardegee  awoke,   choking,  bewildered,  star- 
ing down  the  twin  wells  of  steel. 
u  Where  is  it  ?  "      Kent  asked,  at  the  same  time 
slacking  on  the  rope. 


The  Man  with  the  Gash        129 

"  You  blasted  —  ugh  —  " 

Kent   merely  threw  back  his  weight,  shutting  off 
the  other's  wind. 
"  Bloomin'  —  Bur  —  ugh  —  " 
u  Where  is  it  ?  "  Kent  repeated. 
"  Wot  ? "    Cardegee    asked,    as    soon    as    he   had 
caught  his  breath. 
"  The  gold-dust." 

"  Wot  gold-dust  ?  "  the  perplexed  sailor  de- 
manded. 

"  You  know  well  enough,  —  mine." 
"  Ain't    seen    nothink    of   it.     Wot    do    ye    take 
me   for  ?      A   safe-deposit  ?       Wot   'ave  I  got   to 
do  with  it,  any'ow  ?  " 

"  Mebbe  you  know,  and  mebbe  you  don't  know, 
but  anyway,  I  'm  going  to  stop  your  breath 
till  you  do  know.  And  if  you  lift  a  hand, 
I'll  blow  your  head  off!" 

"  Vast  heavin'  !  "  Cardegee  roared,  as  the  rope 
tightened. 

Kent  eased  away  a  moment,  and  the  sailor, 
wriggling  his  neck  as  though  from  the  pressure, 


130       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

managed  to  loosen  the  noose  a  bit  and  work  it 
up  so  the  point  of  contact  was  just  under  the 
chin. 

u  Well  ?  "  Kent  questioned,  expecting  the  dis- 
closure. 

But  Cardegee  grinned.  u  Go  ahead  with  your 
'angin',  you  bloomin*  old  pot-wolloper  !  " 
Then,  as  the  sailor  had  anticipated,  the  tragedy 
became  a  farce.  Cardegee  being  the  heavier  of 
the  two,  Kent,  throwing  his  body  backward  and 
down,  could  not  lift  him  clear  of  the  ground. 
Strain  and  strive  to  the  uttermost,  the  sailor's 
feet  still  stuck  to  the  floor  and  sustained  a  part 
of  his  weight.  The  remaining  portion  was  sup- 
ported by  the  point  of  contact  just  under  his  chin. 
Failing  to  swing  him  clear,  Kent  clung  on,  re- 
solved to  slowly  throttle  him  or  force  him  to 
tell  what  he  had  done  with  the  hoard.  But  the 
Man  with  the  Gash  would  not  throttle.  Five, 
ten,  fifteen  minutes  passed,  and  at  the  end  of  that 
time,  in  despair,  Kent  let  his  prisoner  down. 
"  Well,"  he  remarked,  wiping  away  the  sweat, 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       1 3 1 

"  if  you  won't  hang  you  '11  shoot.  Some  men 
was  n't  born  to  be  hanged,  anyway." 
"  An'  it 's  a  pretty  mess  as  you  '11  make  o' 
this  'ere  cabin  floor."  Cardegee  was  fighting  for 
time.  u  Now,  look  'ere,  I  '11  tell  you  wot  we  do ; 
we  '11  lay  our  'eads  'longside  an'  reason  together. 
You  've  lost  some  dust.  You  say  as  'ow  I  know, 
an'  I  say  as  'ow  I  don't.  Let 's  get  a  hobserva- 
tion  an'  shape  a  course — " 

"  Vast    heavin*  !  "    Kent    dashed    in,    maliciously 
imitating  the  other's  enunciation.     "  I  'm  going  to 
shape  all  the  courses  of  this  shebang,  and  you  ob- 
serve ;  and  if  you  do  anything  more,  I  '11  bore  you 
as  sure  as  Moses  !  " 
"  For  the  sake  of  my  mother  —  " 
"  Whom    God    have    mercy    upon    if    she    loves 
you.       Ah  !       Would    you  ?  "      He    frustrated     a 
hostile  move  on  the   part  of  the  other  by  press- 
ing the  cold  muzzle  against  his  forehead.     u  Lay 
quiet,    now  !       If  you    lift    as    much    as    a    hair, 
you  '11  get  it." 
It    was   rather   an   awkward   task,   with   the   trig- 


1 3  2       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

ger  of  the  gun  always  within  pulling  distance 
of  the  finger;  but  Kent  was  a  weaver,  and  in 
a  few  minutes  had  the  sailor  tied  hand  and  foot. 
Then  he  dragged  him  without  and  laid  him  by 
the  side  of  the  cabin,  where  he  could  overlook 
the  river  and  watch  the  sun  climb  to  the  meridian. 
"  Now  I  '11  give  you  till  noon,  and  then  —  " 
"Wot?" 

"  You  '11  be  hitting  the  brimstone  trail.  But  if 
you  speak  up,  I  '11  keep  you  till  the  next  bunch  of 
mounted  police  come  by." 

u  Well,  Gawd  blime  me,  if  this  ain't  a  go  ! 
'Ere  I  be,  innercent  as  a  lamb,  an'  'ere  you 
be,  lost  all  o'  your  top  'amper  an'  out  o'  your 
reckonin',  run  me  foul  an'  goin'  to  rake  me  into 
'ell-fire.  You  bloomin'  old  pirut  !  You  —  " 
Jim  Cardegee  loosed  the  strings  of  his  pro- 
fanity and  fairly  outdid  himself.  Jacob  Kent 
brought  out  a  stool  that  he  might  enjoy  it 
in  comfort.  Having  exhausted  all  the  possible 
combinations  of  his  vocabulary,  the  sailor  quieted 
down  to  hard  thinking,  his  eyes  constantly  gauging 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       133 

the  progress  of  the  sun,  which  tore  up  the  eastern 
slope  of  the  heavens  with  unseemly  haste.  His 
dogs,  surprised  that  they  had  not  long  since  been 
put  to  harness,  crowded  around  him.  His  help- 
lessness appealed  to  the  brutes.  They  felt  that 
something  was  wrong,  though  they  knew  not 
what,  and  they  crowded  about,  howling  their 
mournful  sympathy. 

"  Chook  !  Mush-on  !  you  Siwashes  !  "  he  cried, 
attempting,  in  a  vermicular  way,  to  kick  at  them, 
and  discovering  himself  to  be  tottering  on  the 
edge  of  a  declivity.  As  soon  as  the  animals 
had  scattered,  he  devoted  himself  to  the  signifi- 
cance of  that  declivity  which  he  felt  to  be  there 
but  could  not  see.  Nor  was  he  long  in  arriving 
at  a  correct  conclusion.  In  the  nature  of  things, 
he  figured,  man  is  lazy.  He  does  no  more  than 
he  has  to.  When  he  builds  a  cabin  he  must  put 
dirt  on  the  roof.  From  these  premises  it  was  log- 
ical that  he  should  carry  that  dirt  no  further  than 
was  absolutely  necessary.  Therefore,  he  lay  upon 
the  edge  of  the  hole  from  which  the  dirt  had  been 


134       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

taken  to  roof  Jacob  Kent's  cabin.  This  knowl- 
edge, properly  utilized,  might  prolong  things,  he 
thought ;  and  he  then  turned  his  attention  to 
the  moose-hide  thongs  which  bound  him.  His 
hands  were  tied  behind  him,  and  pressing  against 
the  snow,  they  were  wet  with  the  contact.  This 
moistening  of  the  raw-hide  he  knew  would  tend  to 
make  it  stretch,  and,  without  apparent  effort,  he 
endeavored  to  stretch  it  more  and  more. 
He  watched  the  trail  hungrily,  and  when  in  the 
direction  of  Sixty  Mile  a  dark  speck  appeared  for 
a  moment  against  the  white  background  of  an  ice- 
jam,  he  cast  an  anxious  eye  at  the  sun.  It  had 
climbed  nearly  to  the  zenith.  Now  and  again 
he  caught  the  black  speck  clearing  the  hills  of 
ice  and  sinking  into  the  intervening  hollows ; 
but  he  dared  not  permit  himself  more  than  the 
most  cursory  glances  for  fear  of  rousing  his 
enemy's  suspicion.  Once,  when  Jacob  Kent 
rose  to  his  feet  and  searched  the  trail  with  care, 
Cardegee  was  frightened,  but  the  dog-sled  had 
struck  a  piece  of  trail  running  parallel  with  a  jam, 


The  Man  with  the  Gash        135 

and   remained   out   of   sight    till   the   danger   was 
past. 

"  I  '11  see  you  'ung  for  this,"  Cardegee  threatened, 
attempting  to  draw  the  other's  attention.  "  An' 
you  '11  rot  in  'ell,  jes'  you  see  if  you  don't. 
"  I  say,"  he  cried,  after  another  pause ;  "  d'  ye 
b'lieve  in  ghosts  ?  "  Kent's  sudden  start  made 
him  sure  of  his  ground,  and  he  went  on  :  "  Now 
a  ghost  'as  the  right  to  'aunt  a  man  wot  don't  do 
wot  he  says ;  and  you  can't  shuffle  me  off  till  eight 
bells  —  wot  I  mean  is  twelve  o'clock  —  can  you  ? 
'Cos  if  you  do,  it  '11  'appen  as  'ow  I  '11  'aunt  you. 
D  'ye  'ear  ?  A  minute,  a  second  too  quick,  an' 
I  '11  'aunt  you,  so  'elp  me,  I  will !  " 
Jacob  Kent  looked  dubious,  but  declined  to  talk. 
"'Ow's  your  chronometer?  Wot 's  your  longi- 
tude ?  'Ow  do  you  know  as  your  time 's  cor- 
rect ?  "  Cardegee  persisted,  vainly  hoping  to  beat 
his  executioner  out  of  a  few  minutes.  "Is  it 
Barrack's  time  you  'ave,  or  is.  it  the  Company 
time  ?  'Cos  if  you  do  it  before  the  stroke  o' 
the  bell,  I  '11  not  rest.  I  give  you  fair  warnin'. 


136       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

I  '11  come  back.     An'  if  you  'ave  n't  the  time,  'ow 

will  you  know?     That's  wot  I  want — 'ow  will 

you  tell  ?  " 

u  I  '11    send    you    off    all    right,"    Kent    replied. 

"  Got  a  sun-dial  here." 

"  No  good.     Thirty-two  degrees  variation  o'  the 

needle." 

"  Stakes  are  all  set." 

"  'Ow  did  you  set  'em  ?      Compass  ?  " 

"  No ;  lined  them  up  with  the  North  Star." 

"  Sure  ?  " 

"  Sure." 

Cardegee    groaned,    then    stole    a    glance    at    the 

trail.     The  sled  was  just  clearing  a  rise,  barely  a 

mile  away,  and  the  dogs  were  in  full  lope,  running 

lightly. 

ct  'Ow  close  is  the  shadows  to  the  line  ?  " 

Kent    walked    to    the     primitive    timepiece    and 

studied  it.     "  Three  inches,"  he  announced,  after 

a  careful    survey. 

u  Say,  jes'   sing  out  c  eight  bells '   afore   you   pull 

the  gun,  will  you  ?  " 


The  Man  with  the  Gash       137 

Kent  agreed,  and  they  lapsed  into  silence.  The 
thongs  about  Cardegee's  wrists  were  slowly  stretch- 
ing, and  he  had  begun  to  work  them  over  his 
hands. 

"  Say,  'ow  close  is  the  shadows  ?  " 
"  One  inch." 

The    sailor   wriggled    slightly    to    assure    himself 
that    he  would  topple  over  at  the  right  moment, 
and  slipped  the  first  turn  over  his  hands. 
"  'Ow  close  ?  " 

"  Half  an  inch."  Just  then  Kent  heard  the  jar- 
ring churn  of  the  runners  and  turned  his  eyes  to 
the  trail.  The  driver  was  lying  flat  on  the  sled 
and  the  dogs  swinging  down  the  straight  stretch 
to  the  cabin.  Kent  whirled  back,  bringing  his 
rifle  to  shoulder. 

"  It  ain't  eight  bells  yet ! "  Cardegee  expostu- 
lated. "  I  '11  'aunt  you,  sure  !  " 
Jacob  Kent  faltered.  He  was  standing  by  the 
sun-dial,  perhaps  ten  paces  from  his  victim.  The 
man  on  the  sled  must  have  seen  that  something 
unusual  was  taking  place,  for  he  had  risen  to 


138       The  Man  with  the  Gash 

his   knees,  his  whip  singing   viciously  among  the 

dogs. 

The  shadows  swept  into  line.     Kent  looked  along 

the  sights. 

"  Make  ready  !  "  he  commanded  solemnly.    "  Eight 

b—  " 

But   just  a   fraction    of  a  second  too  soon,  Car- 

degee  rolled  backward  into  the  hole.      Kent  held 

his   fire   and   ran   to   the   edge.     Bang !  The  gun 

exploded  full  in  the  sailor's   face  as  he  rose  to  his 

feet.      But    no    smoke    came    from    the    muzzle; 

instead,  a  sheet  of  flame  burst  from  the  side  of  the 

barrel  near  its  butt,  and  Jacob  Kent  went  down. 

The  dogs  dashed  up  the  bank,  dragging  the  sled 

over  his  body,  and  the  driver  sprang  ofF  as  Jim 

Cardegee  freed  his  hands  and  drew  himself  from 

the  hole. 

"  Jim  ! "        The     new-comer     recognized      him. 

"What's   the  matter?" 

"  Wot 's    the    matter  ?     Oh,    nothink   at   all.     It 

jest  'appens  as  I  do  little  things  like  this  for  my 

'ealth.     Wot 's  the    matter,   you    bloomin'    idjit  ? 


The  Man  with  the  Gash  139 
Wot's  the  matter,  eh?  Cast  me  loose  or  I'll 
show  you  wot !  'Urry  up,  or  I  '11  'olystone  the 
decks  with  you  !  " 

"  Huh !  "  he  added,  as  the  other  went  to  work 
with  his  sheath-knife.  "  Wot 's  the  matter  ?  I 
want  to  know.  Jes'  tell  me  that,  will  you,  wot 's 
the  matter  ?  Hey  ?  " 

Kent  was  quite  dead  when  they  rolled  him 
over.  The  gun,  an  old-fashioned,  heavy-weighted 
muzzle-loader,  lay  near  him.  Steel  and  wood  had 
parted  company.  Near  the  butt  of  the  right-hand 
barrel,  with  lips  pressed  outward,  gaped  a  fissure 
several  inches  in  length.  The  sailor  picked  it  up, 
curiously.  A  glittering  stream  of  yellow  dust  ran 
out  through  the  crack.  The  facts  of  the  case 
dawned  upon  Jim  Cardegee. 

"  Strike  me  standin'  !  "  he  roared  ;  "  'ere  's  a 
go  !  'Ere  's  'is  bloomin'  dust !  Gawd  blime  me, 
an'  you,  too,  Charley,  if  you  don't  run  an'  get 
the  dish-pan  ! " 


Jan,  The  Unrepentant 

"  For  there  '  s  never  a  law  of  God  or  man 
Runs  north  of  Fifty -three. ' ' 

JAN  rolled  over,  clawing  and  kicking.  He 
was  righting  hand  and  foot  now,  and  he 
fought  grimly,  silently.  Two  of  the  three 
men  who  hung  upon  him,  shouted  directions  to  each 
other,  and  strove  to  curb  the  short,  hairy  devil  who 
would  not  curb.  The  third  man  howled.  His 
finger  was  between  Jan's  teeth. 
"  Quit  yer  tantrums,  Jan,  an"  ease  up  !  "  panted  Red 
Bill,  getting  a  strangle-hold  on  Jan's  neck.  "  Why 
on  earth  can't  yeh  hang  decent  and  peaceable  ?  " 
But  Jan  kept  his  grip  on  the  third  man's  finger, 
and  squirmed  over  the  floor  of  the  tent,  into  the 
pots  and  pans. 

"  Youah    no    gentleman,    suh,"     reproved     Mr. 
Taylor,   his    body   following    his    finger,   and   en- 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  141 

deavoring  to  accommodate  itself  to  every  jerk  of 

Jan's  head.     "  You  hev  killed  Mistah  Gordon,  as 

brave  and  honorable  a  gentleman  as  ever  hit  the 

trail  aftah  the  dogs.     Youah  a  murderah,  suh,  and 

without  honah." 

"  An'  yer  no  comrade,"  broke  in  Red   Bill.     "  If 

you  was,  you  'd  hang  'thout   rampin'  around  an' 

roarin'.     Come   on,   Jan,   there  's  a  good  fellow. 

Don't  give  us  no    more   trouble.     Jes'    quit,   an' 

we  '11    hang    yeh    neat    and    handy,   an'    be    done 

with  it." 

u  Steady,   all !  "   Lawson,    the    sailorman,  bawled. 

u  Jam    his    head    into    the    bean    pot    and    batten 

down." 

"  But  my  fingah,  suh,"  Mr.  Taylor  protested. 

"Leggo    with  y'r    finger,   then  !     Always    in   the 

way  !  " 

"  But  I  can't,  Mistah  Lawson.    It 's  in  the  critter's 

gullet,  and  nigh  chewed  ofF  as  't  is." 

"  Stand    by    for    stays  ! "     As    Lawson    gave    the 

warning,  Jan  half  lifted  himself,  and  the  struggling 

quartet  floundered  across  the  tent  into  a  muddle  of 


142          Jan,  the  Unrepentant 

furs  and  blankets.  In  its  passage  it  cleared  the 
body  of  a  man,  who  lay  motionless,  bleeding  from 
a  bullet-wound  in  the  heck. 

All  this  was  because  of  the  madness  which  had 
come  upon  Jan  —  the  madness  which  comes  upon 
a  man  who  has  stripped  off  the  raw  skin  of  earth 
and  grovelled  long  in  primal  nakedness,  and  before 
whose  eyes  rises  the  fat  vales  of  the  homeland,  and 
into  whose  nostrils  steals  the  whiff  of  hay,  and 
grass,  and  flower,  and  new-turned  soil.  Through 
five  frigid  years  Jan  had  sown  the  seed.  Stuart 
River,  Forty  Mile,  Circle  City,  Koyokuk,  Kotze- 
bue,  had  marked  his  bleak  and  strenuous  agri- 
culture, and  now  it  was  Nome  that  bore  the 
harvest,  —  not  the  Nome  of  golden  beaches  and 
ruby  sands,  but  the  Nome  of  '97,  before  Anvil 
City  was  located,  or  Eldorado  District  organized. 
John  Gordon  was  a  Yankee,  and  should  have 
known  better.  But  he  passed  the  sharp  word  at 
a  time  when  Jan's  blood-shot  eyes  blazed  and  his 
teeth  gritted  in  torment.  And  because  of  this, 
there  was  a  smell  of  saltpetre  in  the  tent,  and  one 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  143 

lay  quietly,  while  the  other  fought  like  a  cornered 
rat,  and  refused  to  hang  in  the  decent  and  peace- 
able manner  suggested  by  his  comrades. 
cc  If  you  will  allow  me,  Mistah  Lawson,  befoah 
we  go  further  in  this  rumpus,  I  would  say  it  wah 
a  good  idea  to  pry  this  hyer  varmint's  teeth  apart. 
Neither  will  he  bite  off,  nor  will  he  let  go.  He 
has  the  wisdom  of  the  sarpint,  suh,  the  wisdom 
of  the  sarpint." 

"  Lemme  get  the  hatchet  to  him  !  "  vociferated 
the  sailor.  "  Lemme  get  the  hatchet  !  "  He 
shoved  the  steel  edge  close  to  Mr.  Taylor's  ringer 
and  used  the  man's  teeth  as  a  fulcrum.  Jan  held 
on  and  breathed  through  his  nose,  snorting  like  a 
grampus.  "  Steady,  all !  Now  she  takes  it  !  " 
u  Thank  you,  suh ;  it  is  a  powerful  relief." 
And  Mr.  Taylor  proceeded  to  gather  into  his 
arms  the  victim's  wildly  waving  legs. 
But  Jan  upreared  in  his  Berserker  rage ;  bleed- 
ing, frothing,  cursing ;  five  frozen  years  thawing 
into  sudden  hell.  They  swayed  backward  and 
forward,  panted,  sweated,  like  some  cyclopean, 


144  Jan>  tne  Unrepentant 

many-legged  monster  rising  from  the  lower  deeps. 
The  slush-lamp  went  over,  drowned  in  its  own 
fat,  while  the  midday  twilight  scarce  percolated 
through  the  dirty  canvas  of  the  tent. 
"  For  the  love  of  Gawd,  Jan,  get  yer  senses 
hack  !  "  pleaded  Red  Bill.  "  We  ain't  goin'  to 
hurt  yeh,  'r  kill  yeh,  'r  anythin'  of  that  sort.  Jes' 
want  to  hang  yeh,  that  's  all,  an'  you  a-messin' 
round  an'  rampagin*  somethin'  terrible.  To  think 
of  travellin'  trail  together  an*  then  bein'  treated 
this-a  way.  Would  n't  'bleeved  it  of  yeh,  Jan  !  " 
"  He 's  got  too  much  steerage-way.  Grab  holt 
his  legs,  Taylor,  and  heave  'm  over !  " 
"  Yes,  suh,  Mistah  Lawson.  Do  you  press 
youah  weight  above,  after  I  give  the  word."  The 
Kentuckian  groped  about  him  in  the  murky  dark- 
ness. "  Now,  suh,  now  is  the  accepted  time  ! " 
There  was  a  great  surge,  and  a  quarter  of  a 
ton  of  human  flesh  tottered  and  crashed  to  its  fall 
against  the  side-wall.  Pegs  drew  and  guy-ropes 
parted,  and  the  tent,  collapsing,  wrapped  the  battle 
in  its  greasy  folds. 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  145 

"  Yer  only  makin'  it  harder  fer  yerself,"  Red 
Bill  continued,  at  the  same  time  driving  both  his 
thumbs  into  a  hairy  throat,  the  possessor  of  which 
he  had  pinned  down.  "  You  Ve  made  nuisance 
enough  a'  ready,  an*  it  '11  take  half  the  day  to  get 
things  straightened  when  we  Ve  strung  yeh  up." 
"  I  '11  thank  you  to  leave  go,  suh,"  spluttered  Mr. 
Taylor. 

Red  Bill  grunted  and  loosed  his  grip,  and  the  twain 
crawled  out  into  the  open.  At  the  same  instant 
Jan  kicked  clear  of  the  sailor,  and  took  to  his 
heels  across  the  snow. 

"  Hi  !  you  lazy  devils  !  Buck  !  Bright  !  Sic  'm  ! 
Pull  'm  down  !  "  sang  out  Lawson,  lunging  through 
the  snow  after  the  fleeing  man.  Buck  and  Bright, 
followed  by  the  rest  of  the  dogs,  outstripped  him 
and  rapidly  overhauled  the  murderer. 
There  was  no  reason  that  these  men  should  do 
this  ;  no  reason  for  Jan  to  run  away ;  no  reason 
for  them  to  attempt  to  prevent  him.  On  the  one 
hand  stretched  the  barren  snow-land ;  on  the  other, 
the  frozen  sea.  With  neither  food  nor  shelter,  he 
10 


146  Jan,  the  Unrepentant 

could  not  run  far.  All  they  had  to  do  was  to  wait 
till  he  wandered  back  to  the  tent,  as  he  inevitably 
must,  when  the  frost  and  hunger  laid  hold  of  him. 
But  these  men  did  not  stop  to  think.  There  was 
a  certain  taint  of  madness  running  in  the  veins  of 
all  of  them.  Besides,  blood  had  been  spilled,  and 
upon  them  was  the  blood-lust,  thick  and  hot. 
u  Vengeance  is  mine,"  saith  the  Lord,  and  He 
saith  it  in  temperate  climes  where  the  warm  sun 
steals  away  the  energies  of  men.  But  in  the 
Northland  they  have  discovered  that  prayer  is  only 
efficacious  when  backed  by  muscle,  and  they  are 
accustomed  to  doing  things  for  themselves.  God 
is  everywhere,  they  have  heard,  but  he  flings  a 
shadow  over  the  land  for  half  the  year  that  they 
may  not  find  him  ;  so  they  grope  in  darkness,  and 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  that  they  often  doubt,  and 
deem  the  Decalogue  out  of  gear. 
Jan  ran  blindly,  reckoning  not  of  the  way  of  his 
feet,  for  he  was  mastered  by  the  verb  "  to  live." 
To  live  !  To  exist !  Buck  flashed  gray  through 
the  air,  but  missed.  The  man  struck  madly  at 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  147 

him,  and  stumbled.  Then  the  white  teeth  of 
Bright  closed  on  his  mackinaw  jacket,  and  he 
pitched  into  the  snow.  To  live  !  To  exist  !  He 
fought  wildly  as  ever,  the  centre  of  a  tossing  heap 
of  men  and  dogs.  His  left  hand  gripped  a  wolf- 
dog  by  the  scruff  of  the  back,  while  the  arm  was 
passed  around  the  neck  of  Lawson.  Every  strug- 
gle of  the  dog  helped  to  throttle  the  hapless  sailor. 
Jan's  right  hand  was  buried  deep  in  the  curling 
tendrils  of  Red  Bill's  shaggy  head,  and  beneath  all, 
Mr.  Taylor  lay  pinned  and  helpless.  It  was  a 
deadlock,  for  the  strength  of  his  madness  was  pro- 
digious; but  suddenly,  without  apparent  reason, 
Jan  loosed  his  various  grips  and  rolled  over 
quietly  on  his  back.  His  adversaries  drew  away 
a  little,  dubious  and  disconcerted.  Jan  grinned 
viciously. 

"  Mine  friends,"  he  said,  still  grinning,  "  you 
haf  asked  me  to  be  politeful,  und  now  I  am 
politeful.  Vot  piziness  vood  you  do  mit  me  ?  " 
"  That  's  right,  Jan.  Be  ca'm,"  soothed  Red 
Bill.  u  I  knowed  you'd  come  to  yer  senses  afore 


148  Jan,  the  Unrepentant 

long.     Jes'  be  ca'm  now,  an*  we  '11   do  the  trick 

with  neatness  and  despatch." 

u  Vot  piziness  ?     Vot  trick  ?  " 

"  The  hangin'.      An*  yeh  oughter  thank  yer  lucky 

stars  for  havin*  a  man  what  knows  his  business. 

I  Ve  did  it  afore  now,  more  'n  once,  down  in  the 

States,  an'  I  can  do  it  to  a  T." 

"  Hang  who  ?      Me  ?  " 

"  Yep." 

"  Ha  !   ha  !      Shust  hear  der  man  speak  foolishness  ! 

Gif  me  a  hand,  Bill,  und  I  vill  get  up  und  be  hung." 

He  crawled  stiffly  to  his  feet  and  looked  about  him. 

"  Herr  Gott !   listen  to  der  man  !   He  vood  hang  me ! 

Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !      I  tank  not !     Yes,  I  tank  not  !  " 

"  And  I  tank   yes,  you  swab,"  Lawson  spoke  up 

mockingly,  at  the  same  time  cutting  a  sled-lashing 

and   coiling    it    up   with    ominous    care.     "Judge 

Lynch  holds  court  this  day." 

u  Von  liddle  while."     Jan  stepped   back  from  the 

proffered  noose.     "  I  haf  somedings  to  ask  und  to 

make  der  great  proposition.      Kentucky,  you  know 

about  der  Shudge  Lynch  ?  " 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  149 

u  Yes,  suh.     It  is  an  institution  of  free  men  and 

of  gentlemen,  and  it  is  an  ole  one  and  time-honored. 

Corruption  may  wear  the  robe  of  magistracy,  suh, 

but  Judge  Lynch  can  always  be  relied  upon  to  give 

justice  without  court  fees.     I  repeat,  suh,  without 

court  fees.      Law  may  be  bought  and  sold,  but  in 

this  enlightened  land  justice  is  free  as  the  air  we 

breathe,  strong    as   the    licker    we    drink,   prompt 

as  —  " 

"  Cut  it  short !     Find  out  what  the  beggar  wants," 

interrupted  Lawson,  spoiling  the  peroration. 

u  Veil,  Kentucky,  tell  me  dis  :  von  man  kill  von 

odder  man,  Shudge  Lynch  hang  dot  man  ?  " 

u  If  the  evidence  is  strong  enough  —  yes,  suh." 

"An*   the   evidence   in   this   here    case    is    strong 

enough  to  hang  a  dozen  men,  Jan,"  broke  in  Red 

Bill. 

"  Nefer  you   mind,   Bill.     I    talk   mit   you   next. 

Now  von  anodder  ding  I  ask  Kentucky.     If  Shudge 

Lynch  hang  not  der  man,  vot  den  ?  " 

"  If  Judge  Lynch  does  not  hang  the  man,  then  the 

man  goes  free,  and  his  hands   are    washed    clean 


150  Jan,  the  Unrepentant 

of  blood.     And  further,  suh,  our  great  and  glorious 

constitution    has  said,  to  wit :    that  no  man   may 

twice  be  placed  in  jeopardy  of  his  life  for  one  and 

the  same  crime,  or  words  to  that  effect." 

u  Unt  dey  can't  shoot  him,  or  hit  him  mit  a  club 

over  der  head  alongside,  or  do  nodings   more  mit 

him  ? " 

«  No,  suh." 

"  Goot !  You  hear  vot  Kentucky  speaks,  all  you 

noddleheads  ?     Now  I  talk  mit  Bill.     You  know 

der  piziness,  Bill,  und  you  hang  me  up  brown,  eh  ? 

Vot  you  say  ?  " 

"  'Betcher  life,  an',  Jan,  if  yeh  don't  give  no  more 

trouble  ye  '11  be  almighty  proud  of  the  job.     I  'm 

* 
a  connesoor." 

"  You  haf  der  great  head,  Bill,  und  know  some- 
dings  or  two.     Und  you  know  two  und  one  makes 
tree  —  ain't  it  ?  " 
Bill  nodded. 

"  Und  when  you  haf  two  dings,  you  haf  not  tree 
dings  —  ain't  it  ?  Now  you  follow  mit  me  close 
und  I  show  you.  It  takes  tree  dings  to  hang. 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  1 5 1 

First  ding,  you  haf  to  haf  der  man.  Goot !  I  am 
der  man.  Second  ding,  you  haf  to  haf  der  rope. 
Lawson  haf  der  rope.  Goot  !  Und  tird  ding, 
you  haf  to  haf  someding  to  tie  der  rope  to.  Sling 
your  eyes  over  der  landscape  und  find  der  tird 
ding  to  tie  der  rope  to  ?  Eh  ?  Vot  you  say  ?  " 
Mechanically  they  swept  the  ice  and  snow  with 
their  eyes.  It  was  a  homogeneous  scene,  devoid 
of  contrasts  or  bold  contours,  dreary,  desolate,  and 
monotonous,  —  the  ice-packed  sea,  the  slow  slope 
of  the  beach,  the  background  of  low-lying  hills, 
and  over  all  thrown  the  endless  mantle  of  snow. 
u  No  trees,  no  bluffs,  no  cabins,  no  telegraph  poles, 
nothin',"  moaned  Red  Bill ;  "  nothin'  respectable 
enough  nor  big  enough  to  swing  the  toes  of  a  five- 
foot  man  clear  o'  the  ground.  I  give  it  up."  He 
looked  yearningly  at  that  portion  of  Jan's  anatomy 
which  joins  the  head  and  shoulders.  u  Give  it 
up,"  he  repeated  sadly  to  Lawson.  "  Throw  the 
rope  down.  Gawd  never  intended  this  here  coun- 
try for  livin'  purposes,  an'  that 's  a  cold  frozen 
fact." 


152  Jan,  the  Unrepentant 

Jan  grinned  triumphantly.  "  I  tank  I  go  mit  der 
tent  und  haf  a  smoke." 

"  Ostensiblee  y'r  correct,  Bill,  me  son,"  spoke  up 
Lawson ;  "  but  y'r  a  dummy,  and  you  can  lay  to 
that  for  another  cold  frozen  fact.  Takes  a  sea 
farmer  to  learn  you  landsmen  things.  Ever  hear  of 
a  pair  of  shears  ?  Then  clap  y'r  eyes  to  this." 
The  sailor  worked  rapidly.  From  the  pile  of  dun- 
nage where  they  had  pulled  up  the  boat  the  pre- 
ceding fall,  he  unearthed  a  pair  of  long  oars.  These 
he  lashed  together,  at  nearly  right  angles,  close  to 
the  ends  of  the  blades.  Where  the  handles  rested 
he  kicked  holes  through  the  snow  to  the  sand.  At 
the  point  of  intersection  he  attached  two  guy- 
ropes,  making  the  end  of  one  fast  to  a  cake  of 
beach-ice.  The  other  guy  he  passed  over  to  Red 
Bill.  "  Here,  me  son,  lay  holt  o'  that  and  run 
it  out." 

And  to  his  horror,  Jan  saw  his  gallows  rise  in  the 
air.  "  No  !  no  !  "  he  cried,  recoiling  and  putting 
up  his  fists.  "  It  is  not  goot !  I  vill  not  hang  ! 
Come,  you  noddleheads  !  I  vill  lick  you,  all  to- 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  153 

gather,  von  after  der  odder !  I  vill  blay  hell !  I 
vill  do  eferydings  !  Und  I  vill  die  pefore  I 
hang  !  " 

The  sailor  permitted  the  two  other  men  to  clinch 
with  the  mad  creature.  They  rolled  and  tossed 
about  furiously,  tearing  up  snow  and  tundra,  their 
fierce  struggle  writing  a  tragedy  of  human  passion 
on  the  white  sheet  spread  by  nature.  And  ever 
and  anon  a  hand  or  foot  of  Jan  emerged  from 
the  tangle,  to  be  gripped  by  Lawson  and  lashed 
fast  with  rope-yarns.  Pawing,  clawing,  blasphem- 
ing, he  was  conquered  and  bound,  inch  by  inch, 
and  drawn  to  where  the  inexorable  shears  lay  like  a 
pair  of  gigantic  dividers  on  the  snow.  Red  Bill 
adjusted  the  noose,  placing  the  hangman's  knot 
properly  under  the  left  ear.  Mr.  Taylor  and 
Lawson  tailed  onto  the  running-guy,  ready  at  the 
word  to  elevate  the  gallows.  Bill  lingered,  con- 
templating his  work  with  artistic  appreciation. 
"  Herr  Gott !  Vood  you  look  at  it  !  " 
The  horror  in  Jan's  voice  caused  the  rest  to  desist. 
The  fallen  tent  had  uprisen,  and  in  the  gathering 


154          Jan>  the  Unrepentant 

twilight  it  flapped  ghostly  arms  about  and  titubated 
toward  them  drunkenly.  But  the  next  instant  John 
Gordon  found  the  opening  and  crawled  forth. 
"  What  the  flaming  —  !  "  For  the  moment  his 
voice  died  away  in  his  throat  as  his  eyes  took  in 
the  tableau.  "  Hold  on  !  I  'm  not  dead  !  "  he 
cried  out,  coming  up  to  the  group  with  stormy 
countenance. 

"  Allow  me,  Mistah  Gordon,  to  congratulate  you 
upon  youah  escape,"  Mr.  Taylor  ventured.  "A 
close  shave,  suh,  a  powahful  close  shave." 
"  Congratulate  hell !  I  might  have  been  dead  and 
rotten  and  no  thanks  to  you,  you  — ! "  And 
thereat  John  Gordon  delivered  himself  of  a  vigor- 
ous flood  of  English,  terse,  intensive,  denunciative, 
and  composed  solely  of  expletives  and  adjectives. 
"  Simply  creased  me,"  he  went  on  when  he  had 
eased  himself  sufficiently.  "  Ever  crease  cattle, 
Taylor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  suh,  many  a  time  down  in  God's  country." 
"  Just  so.  That 's  what  happened  to  me.  Bullet 
just  grazed  the  base  of  my  skull  at  the  top  of  the 


Jan,  the  Unrepentant  155 

neck.  Stunned  me  but  no  harm  done."  He 
turned  to  the  bound  man.  "  Get  up,  Jan.  I  'm 
going  to  lick  you  to  a  standstill  or  you  're  going  to 
apologize.  The  rest  of  you  lads  stand  clear." 
"  I  tank  not.  Shust  tie  me  loose  und  you  see," 
replied  Jan,  the  Unrepentant,  the  devil  within  him 
still  unconquered.  "  Und  after  as  I  lick  you,  I  take 
der  rest  of  der  noddleheads,  von  after  der  odder, 
altogedder !  " 


Grit  of  Women 

A  WOLFISH  head,  wistful-eyed  and  frost- 
rimed,  thrust  aside  the  tent-flaps. 
"  Hi  !  Chook  !  Siwash  !  Chook,  you 
limb  of  Satan  !  "  chorused  the  protesting  inmates. 
Bettles  rapped  the  dog  sharply  with  a  tin  plate,  and 
it  withdrew  hastily.  Louis  Savoy  refastened  the 
flaps,  kicked  a  frying-pan  over  against  the  bottom, 
and  warmed  his  hands.  It  was  very  cold  without. 
Forty-eight  hours  gone,  the  spirit  thermometer  had 
burst  at  sixty-eight  below,  and  since  that  time  it 
had  grown  steadily  and  bitterly  colder.  There  was 
no  telling  when  the  snap  would  end.  And  it  is 
poor  policy,  unless  the  gods  will  it,  to  venture  far 
from  a  stove  at  such  times,  or  to  increase  the 
quantity  of  cold  atmosphere  one  must  breathe. 
Men  sometimes  do  it,  and  sometimes  they  chill  their 
lungs.  This  leads  up  to  a  dry,  hacking  cough, 


Grit  of  Women  157 

noticeably  irritable  when  bacon  is  being  fried. 
After  that,  somewhere  along  in  the  spring  or  sum- 
mer, a  hole  is  burned  in  the  frozen  muck.  Into 
this  a  man's  carcass  is  dumped,  covered  over  with 
moss,  and  left  with  the  assurance  that  it  will  rise  on 
the  crack  of  Doom,  wholly  and  frigidly  intact.  For 
those  of  little  faith,  sceptical  of  material  integration 
on  that  fateful  day,  no  fitter  country  than  the 
Klondike  can  be  recommended  to  die  in.  But  it 
is  not  to  be  inferred  from  this  that  it  is  a  fit  country 
for  living  purposes. 

It  was  very  cold  without,  but  it  was  not  over-warm 
within.  The  only  article  which  might  be  designated 
furniture  was  the  stove,  and  for  this  the  men  were 
frank  in  desplaying  their  preference.  Upon  half 
of  the  floor  pine  boughs  had  been  cast ;  above  this 
were  spread  the  sleeping-furs,  beneath  lay  the  win- 
ter's snowfall.  The  remainder  of  the  floor  was 
moccasin-packed  snow,  littered  with  pots  and  pans 
and  the  general  impedimenta  of  an  Arctic  camp. 
The  stove  was  red  and  roaring  hot,  but  only  a  bare 
three  feet  away  lay  a  block  of  ice,  as  sharp-edged 


158  Grit  of  Women 

and  dry  as  when  first  quarried  from  the  creek 
bottom.  The  pressure  of  the  outside  cold  forced 
the  inner  heat  upward.  Just  above  the  stove, 
where  the  pipe  penetrated  the  roof,  was  a  tiny 
circle  of  dry  canvas ;  next,  with  the  pipe  always  as 
centre,  a  circle  of  steaming  canvas  ;  next  a  damp 
and  moisture-exuding  ring  ;  and  finally,  the  rest  of 
the  tent,  sidewalls  and  top,  coated  with  a  half-inch 
of  dry,  white,  crystal-encrusted  frost. 
"  Oh  !  OH  !  OH  !  "  A  young  fellow,  lying 
asleep  in  the  furs,  bearded  and  wan  and  weary, 
raised  a  moan  of  pain,  and  without  waking  in- 
creased the  pitch  and  intensity  of  his  anguish.  His 
body  half-lifted  from  the  blankets,  and  quivered 
and  shrank  spasmodically,  as  though  drawing  away 
from  a  bed  of  nettles. 

"  Roll  'm      over  !  "      ordered      Settles.        "  He  's 
crampinV 

And  thereat,  with  pitiless  good-will,  he  was  pitched 
upon  and  rolled  and  thumped  and  pounded  by  half- 
a-dozen  willing  comrades. 
"  Damn    the    trail,"    he    muttered    softly,    as     he 


Grit  of  Women  159 

threw  off  the  robes  and  sat  up.  "  I  've  run  across 
country,  played  quarter  three  seasons  hand-running, 
and  hardened  myself  in  all  manner  of  ways;  and 
then  I  pilgrim  it  into  this  God-forsaken  land  and 
find  myself  an  effeminate  Athenian  without  the 
simplest  rudiments  of  manhood  !  "  He  hunched 
up  to  the  fire  and  rolled  a  cigarette.  "  Oh,  I  'm 
not  whining.  I  can  take  my  medicine  all  right, 
all  right ;  but  I  'm  just  decently  ashamed  of  myself, 
that 's  all.  Here  I  am,  on  top  of  a  dirty  thirty  miles, 
as  knocked  up  and  stiff  and  sore  as  a  pink-tea  de- 
generate after  a  five-mile  walk  on  a  country  turn-  • 
pike.  Bah  !  It  makes  me  sick  !  Got  a  match  ?  " 
"  Don't  git  the  tantrums,  youngster."  Bettles 
passed  over  the  required  fire-stick  and  waxed 
patriarchal.  "  Ye  've  gotter  'low  some  for  the 
breakin'-in.  Sufferin'  cracky !  don't  I  recollect 
the  first  time  I  hit  the  trail!  Stiff?  I've  seen 
the  time  it  'd  take  me  ten  minutes  to  git  my 
mouth  from  the  waterhole  an'  come  to  my  feet  — 
every  jint  crackin'  an'  kickin'  fit  to  kill.  Cramp  ? 
In  sech  knots  it  'd  take  the  camp  half  a  day  to 


160  Grit  of  Women 

untangle  me.  You're  all  right,  for  a  cub,  an' 
ye  've  the  true  sperrit.  Come  this  day  year, 
you  '11  walk  all  us  old  bucks  into  the  ground  any 
time.  An'  best  in  your  favor,  you  hain't  got  that 
streak  of  fat  in  your  make-up  which  has  sent  many 
a  husky  man  to  the  bosom  of  Abraham  afore  his 
right  and  proper  time." 
«  Streak  of  fat  ?  " 

u  Yep.     Comes  along  of  bulk.     'T  ain't  the  big 
men  as  is  the  best  when  it  comes  to  the  trail." 
"  Never  heard  of  it." 

"  Never  heered  of  it,  eh  ?  Well,  it 's  a  dead 
straight,  open-an'-shut  fact,  an'  no  gittin'  round. 
Bulk  's  all  well  enough  for  a  mighty  big  effort,  but 
'thout  stayin'  powers  it  ain't  worth  a  continental 
whoop ;  an'  stayin'  powers  an'  bulk  ain't  runnin' 
mates.  Takes  the  small,  wiry  fellows  when  it 
comes  to  gittin'  right  down  an'  hangin'  on  like  a 
lean-jowled  dog  to  a  bone.  Why,  hell's  fire,  the 
big  men  they  ain't  in  it !  " 

"  By  gar  !  "  broke  in  Louis  Savoy,  "  dat  is  no,  vot 
you  call,  josh  !  I  know  one  mans,  so  vaire  beeg 


Grit  of  Women  1 6 1 

like  ze  buffalo.  Wit  him,  on  ze  Sulphur  Creek 
stampede,  go  one  small  mans,  Lon  McFane. 
You  know  dat  Lon  McFane,  dat  leetle  Irisher 
wit  ze  red  hair  and  ze  grin.  An'  dey  walk  an' 
walk  an'  walk,  all  ze  day  long  an'  ze  night  long. 
And  beeg  mans,  him  become  vaire  tired,  an'  lay 
down  mooch  in  ze  snow.  And  leetle  mans  keek 
beeg  mans,  an'  him  cry  like,  vot  you  call  —  ah  !  vot 
you  call  ze  kid.  And  leetle  mans  keek  an'  keek 
an'  keek,  an'  bime  by,  long  time,  long  way,  keek 
beeg  mans  into  my  cabin.  Tree  days  'fore  him 
crawl  out  my  blankets.  Nevaire  I  see  beeg  squaw 
like  him.  No  nevaire.  Him  haf  vot  you  call  ze 
streak  of  fat.  You  bet." 

"  But  there  was  Axel  Gunderson,"  Prince  spoke 
up.  The  great  Scandinavian,  with  the  tragic 
events  which  shadowed  his  passing,  had  made  a 
deep  mark  on  the  mining  engineer.  "  He  lies  up 
there,  somewhere."  He  swept  his  hand  in  the 
vague  direction  of  the  mysterious  east. 
"  Biggest  man  that  ever  turned  his  heels  to  Salt 
Water  or  run  a  moose  down  with  sheer  grit,"  sup- 
ii 


1 62  Grit  of  Women 

plemented  Bettles ;  "  but  he  's  the  prove-the-rule 
exception.     Look  at  his  woman,  Unga, — tip  the 
scales  at  a  hundred  an'  ten,  clean  meat  an'  nary 
ounce  to  spare.      She  'd  bank  grit  'gainst  his  for 
all  there  was  in  him,  an'  see  him,,  an'  go  him  bet- 
ter if  it  was  possible.     Nothing  over  the  earth,  or 
in  it,  or  under  it,  she  would  n't  'a'  done." 
"  But  she  loved  him,"  objected  the  engineer. 
"  'T  ain't  that.     It  —  " 

"  Look  you,  brothers,"  broke  in  Sitka  Charley 
from  his  seat  on  the  grub-box.  u  Ye  have  spoken 
of  the  streak  of  fat  that  runs  in  big  men's  muscles, 
of  the  grit  of  women  and  the  love,  and  ye  have 
spoken  fair ;  but  I  have  in  mind  things  which  hap- 
pened when  the  land  was  young  and  the  fires  of 
men  apart  as  the  stars.  It  was  then  I  had  con- 
cern with  a  big  man,  and  a  streak  of  fat,  and  a 
woman.  And  the  woman  was  small;  but  her 
heart  was  greater  than  the  beef-heart  of  the  man, 
and  she  had  grit.  And  we  traveled  a  weary  trail, 
even  to  the  Salt  Water,  and  the  cold  was  bitter,  the 
snow  deep,  the  hunger  great.  And  the  woman's 


Grit  of  Women  163 

love  was  a  mighty  love  —  no  more  can  man  say 
than  this." 

He  paused,  and  with  the  hatchet  broke  pieces  of 
ice  from  the  large  chunk  beside  him.  These  he 
threw  into  the  gold  pan  on  the  stove,  where  the 
drinking-water  thawed.  The  men  drew  up  closer, 
and  he  of  the  cramps  sought  greater  comfort  vainly 
for  his  stiffened  body. 

"  Brothers,  my  blood  is  red  with  Siwash,  but  my 
heart  is  white.  To  the  faults  of  my  fathers  I  owe 
the  one,  to  the  virtues  of  my  friends  the  other.  A 
great  truth  came  to  me  when  I  was  yet  a  boy.  I 
learned  that  to  your  kind  and  you  was  given  the 
earth  •,  that  the  Siwash  could  not  withstand  you, 
and  like  the  caribou  and  the  bear,  must  perish  in 
the  cold.  So  I  came  into  the  warm  and  sat 
among  you,  by  your  fires,  and  behold,  I  became 
one  of  you.  I  have  seen  much  in  my  time.  I 
have  known  strange  things,  and  bucked  big,  on 
big  trails,  with  men  of  many  breeds.  And  because 
of  these  things,  I  measure  deeds  after  your  manner, 
and  judge  men,  and  think  thoughts.  Where- 


1 64  Grit  of  Women 

fore,  when  I  speak  harshly  of  one  of  your  own 
kind,  I  know  you  will  not  take  it  amiss ;  and 
when  I  speak  high  of  one  of  my  father's  people, 
you  will  not  take  it  upon  you  to  say,  c  Sitka  Char- 
ley is  Siwash,  and  there  is  a  crooked  light  in  his 
eyes  and  small  honor  to  his  tongue/  Is  it  not 
so  ?  " 

Deep  down  in  throat,  the  circle  vouchsafed  its 
assent. 

"  The  woman  was  Passuk.  I  got  her  in  fair  trade 
from  her  people,  who  were  of  the  Coast  and  whose 
Chilcat  totem  stood  at  the  head  of  a  salt  arm  of 
the  sea.  My  heart  did  not  go  out  to  the  woman, 
nor  did  I  take  stock  of  her  looks.  For  she  scarce 
took  her  eyes  from  the  ground,  and  she  was  timid 
and  afraid,  as  girls  will  be  when  cast  into  a  stran- 
ger's arms  whom  they  have  never  seen  before. 
As  I  say,  there  was  no  place  in  my  heart  for  her 
to  creep,  for  I  had  a  great  journey  in  mind,  and 
stood  in  need  of  one  to  feed  my  dogs  and  to  lift  a 
paddle  with  me  through  the  long  river  days.  One 
blanket  would  cover  the  twain  ;  so  I  chose  Passuk. 


Grit  of  Women  1 6  5 

"  Have  I  not  said  I  was  a  servant  to  the  Govern- 
ment ?  If  not,  it  is  well  that  ye  know.  So  I  was 
taken  on  a  warship,  sleds  and  dogs  and  evaporated 
foods,  and  with  me  came  Passuk.  And  we  went 
north,  to  the  winter  ice-rim  of  Bering  Sea,  where 
we  were  landed,  —  myself,  and  Passuk,  and  the 
dogs.  I  was  also  given  moneys  of  the  Govern- 
ment, for  I  was  its  servant,  and  charts  of  lands 
which  the  eyes  of  man  had  never  dwelt  upon,  and 
messages.  These  messages  were  sealed,  and  pro- 
tected shrewdly  from  the  weather,  and  I  was  to 
deliver  them  to  the  whale-ships  of  the  Arctic,  ice- 
bound by  the  great  Mackenzie.  Never  was  there 
so  great  a  river,  forgetting  only  our  own  Yukon, 
the  Mother  of  all  Rivers. 

"  All  of  which  is  neither  here  nor  there,  for  my 
story  deals  not  with  the  whale-ships,  nor  the  berg- 
bound  winter  I  spent  by  the  Mackenzie.  After- 
ward, in  the  spring,  when  the  days  lengthened  and 
there  was  a  crust  to  the  snow,  we  came  south, 
Passuk  and  I,  to  the  Country  of  the  Yukon.  A 
weary  journey,  but  the  sun  pointed  out  the  way  of 


1 66  Grit  of  Women 

our  feet.  It  was  a  naked  land  then,  as  I  have 
said,  and  we  worked  up  the  current,  with  pole  and 
paddle,  till  we  came  to  Forty  Mile.  Good  it  was 
to  see  white  faces  once  again,  so  we  put  into  the 
bank.  And  that  winter  was  a  hard  winter.  The 
darkness  and  the  cold  drew  down  upon  us,  and 
with  them  the  famine.  To  each  man  the  agent  of 
the  Company  gave  forty  pounds  of  flour  and  twenty 
of  bacon.  There  were  no  beans.  And  the  dogs 
howled  always,  and  there  were  flat  bellies  and 
deep-lined  faces,  and  strong  men  became  weak, 
and  weak  men  died.  There  was  also  much 
scurvy. 

u  Then  came  we  together  in  the  store  one  night, 
and  the  empty  shelves  made  us  feel  our  own  emp- 
tiness the  more.  We  talked  low,  by  the  light  of 
the  fire,  for  the  candles  had  been  set  aside  for 
those  who  might  yet  gasp  in  the  spring.  Discus- 
sion was  held,  and  it  was  said  that  a  man  must  go 
forth  to  the  Salt  Water  and  tell  to  the  world  our 
misery.  At  this  all  eyes  turned  to  me,  for  it  was 
understood  that  I  was  a  great  traveler,  '  It  is 


Grit  of  Women  1 67 

seven  hundred  miles,'  said  I,  '  to  Haines  Mission 
by  the  sea,  and  every  inch  of  it  snowshoe  work. 
Give  me  the  pick  of  your  dogs  and  the  best  of 
your  grub,  and  I  will  go.  And  with  me  shall  go 
Passuk.' 

"  To  this  they  were  agreed.  But  there  arose 
one,  Long  Jeff,  a  Yankee-man,  big-boned  and  big- 
muscled.  Also  his  talk  was  big.  He,  too,  was  a 
mighty  traveler,  he  said,  born  to  the  snowshoe  and 
bred  up  on  buffalo  milk.  He  would  go  with  me, 
in  case  I  fell  by  the  trail,  that  he  might  carry  the 
word  on  to  the  Mission.  I  was  young,  and  I 
knew  not  Yankee-men.  How  was  I  to  know 
that  big  talk  betokened  the  streak  of  fat,  or  that 
Yankee-men  who  did  great  things  kept  their  teeth 
together?  So  we  took  the  pick  of  the  dogs  and 
the  best  of  the  grub,  and  struck  the  trail,  we  three, 
—  Passuk,  Long  Jeff,  and  I. 

"  Well,  ye  have  broken  virgin  snow,  labored  at 
the  gee-pole,  and  are  not  unused  to  the  packed 
river-jams ;  so  I  will  talk  little  of  the  toil,  save 
that  on  some  days  we  made  ten  miles,  and  on 


1 68  Grit  of  Women 

others  thirty,  but  more  often  ten.  And  the  best 
of  the  grub  was  not  good,  while  we  went  on  stint 
from  the  start.  Likewise  the  pick  of  the  dogs 
was  poor,  and  we  were  hard  put  to  keep  them  on 
their  legs.  At  the  White  River  our  three  sleds 
became  two  sleds,  and  we  had  only  come  two 
hundred  miles.  But  we  lost  nothing ;  the  dogs 
that  left  the  traces  went  into  the  bellies  of  those 
that  remained. 

u  Not  a  greeting,  not  a  curl  of  smoke,  till  we  made 
Pelly.  Here  I  had  counted  on  grub ;  and  here  I 
had  counted  on  leaving  Long  Jeff,  who  was  whin- 
ing and  trail-sore.  But  the  factor's  lungs  were 
wheezing,  his  eyes  bright,  his  cache  nigh  empty; 
and  he  showed  us  the  empty  cache  of  the  mission- 
ary, also  his  grave  with  the  rocks  piled  high  to 
keep  off  the  dogs.  There  was  a  bunch  of  Indians 
there,  but  babies  and  old  men  there  were  none, 
and  it  was  clear  that  few  would  see  the  spring. 
u  So  we  pulled  on,  light-stomached  and  heavy- 
hearted,  with  half  a  thousand  miles  of  snow  and 
silence  between  us  and  Haines  Mission  by  the  sea. 


Grit  of  Women  169 

The  darkness  was  at  its  worst,  and  at  midday  the 
sun  could  not  clear  the  sky-line  to  the  south.  But 
the  ice-jams  were  smaller,  the  going  better;  so  I 
pushed  the  dogs  hard  and  traveled  late  and  early. 
As  I  said  at  Forty  Mile,  every  inch  of  it  was  snow- 
shoe  work.  And  the  shoes  made  great  sores  on 
our  feet,  which  cracked  and  scabbed  but  would  not 
heal.  And  every  day  these  sores  grew  more  griev- 
ous, till  in  the  morning,  when  we  girded  on  the 
shoes,  Long  Jeff  cried  like  a  child.  I  put  him  at 
the  fore  of  the  light  sled  to  break  trail,  but  he 
slipped  off  the  shoes  for  comfort.  Because  of 
this  the  trail  was  not  packed,  his  moccasins 
made  great  holes,  and  into  these  holes  the  dogs 
wallowed.  The  bones  of  the  dogs  were  ready  to 
break  through  their  hides,  and  this  was  not  good 
for  them.  So  I  spoke  hard  words  to  the  man, 
and  he  promised,  and  broke  his  word.  Then  I 
beat  him  with  the  dog-whip,  and  after  that  the 
dogs  wallowed  no  more.  He  was  a  child,  what 
of  the  pain  and  the  streak  of  fat. 
"  But  Passuk.  While  the  man  lay  by  the  fire  and 


1 70  Grit  of  Women 

wept,  she  cooked,  and  in  the  morning  helped  lash 
the  sleds,  and  in  the  evening  to  imlash  them.  And 
she  saved  the  dogs.  Ever  was  she  to  the  fore, 
lifting  the  webbed  shoes  and  making  the  way  easy. 
Passuk — how  shall  I  say  ? — I  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  should  do  these  things,  and  thought  no 
more  about  it.  For  my  mind  was  busy  with  other 
matters,  and  besides,  I  was  young  in  years  and 
knew  little  of  woman.  It  was  only  on  looking 
back  that  I  came  to  understand. 
tt  And  the  man  became  worthless.  The  dogs  had 
little  strength  in  them,  but  he  stole  rides  on  the 
sled  when  he  lagged  behind.  Passuk  said  she 
would  take  the  one  sled,  so  the  man  had  nothing 
to  do.  In  the  morning  I  gave  him  his  fair  share 
of  grub  and  started  him  on  the  trail  alone.  Then 
the  woman  and  I  broke  camp,  packed  the  sleds, 
and  harnessed  the  dogs.  By  midday,  when  the 
sun  pocked  us,  we  would  overtake  the  man,  with 
the  tears  frozen  on  his  cheeks,  and  pass  him.  In 
the  night  we  made  camp,  set  aside  his  fair  share 
of  grub,  and  spread  his  furs.  Also  we  made  a  big 


Grit  of  Women  171 

fire,  that  he  might  see.  And  hours  afterward  he 
would  come  limping  in,  and  eat  his  grub  with 
moans  and  groans,  and  sleep.  He  was  not  sick, 
this  man.  He  was  only  trail-sore  and  tired,  and 
weak  with  hunger.  But  Passuk  and  I  were  trail- 
sore  and  tired,  and  weak  with  hunger ;  and  we  did 
all  the  work  and  he  did  none.  But  he  had  the 
streak  of  fat  of  which  our  brother  Bettles  has 
spoken.  Further,  we  gave  the  man  always  his 
fair  share  of  grub. 

"Then  one  day  we  met  two  ghosts  journeying 
through  the  Silence.  They  were  a  man  and  a 
boy,  and  they  were  white.  The  ice  had  opened 
on  Lake  Le  Barge,  and  through  it  had  gone  their 
main  outfit.  One  blanket  each  carried  about  his 
shoulders.  At  night  they  built  a  fire  and  crouched 
over  it  till  morning.  They  had  a  little  flour. 
This  they  stirred  in  warm  water  and  drank.  The 
man  showed  me  eight  cups  of  flour  —  all  they  had, 
and  Pelly,  stricken  with  famine,  two  hundred  miles 
away.  They  said,  also,  that  there  was  an  Indian 
behind ;  that  they  had  whacked  fair,  but  that  he 


172  Grit  of  Women 

could  not  keep  up.  I  did  not  believe  they  had 
whacked  fair,  else  would  the  Indian  have  kept  up. 
But  I  could  give  them  no  grub.  They  strove  to 
steal  a  dog  —  the  fattest,  which  was  very  thin  — 
but  I  shoved  my  pistol  in  their  faces  and  told  them 
begone.  And  they  went  away,  like  drunken  men, 
through  the  Silence  toward  Pelly. 
"  I  had  three  dogs  now,  and  one  sled,  and  the 
dogs  were  only  bones  and  hair.  When  there  is 
little  wood,  the  fire  burns  low  and  the  cabin  grows 
cold.  So  with  us.  With  little  grub  the  frost  bites 
sharp,  and  our  faces  were  black  and  frozen  till  our 
own  mothers  would  not  have  known  us.  And  our 
feet  were  very  sore.  In  the  morning,  when  I  hit 
the  trail,  I  sweated  to  keep  down  the  cry  when  the 
pain  of  the  snowshoes  smote  me.  Passuk  never 
opened  her  lips,  but  stepped  to  the  fore  to  break 
the  way.  The  man  howled. 

"The  Thirty  Mile  was  swift,  and  the  current 
ate  away  the  ice  from  beneath,  and  there  were 
many  air-holes  and  cracks,  and  much  open  water. 
One  day  we  came  upon  the  man,  resting,  for  he 


Grit  of  Women  173 

had  gone  ahead,  as  was  his  wont,  in  the  morning. 
But  between  us  was  open  water.  This  he  had 
passed  around  by  taking  to  the  rim-ice  where  it 
was  too  narrow  for  a  sled.  So  we  found  an  ice- 
bridge.  Passuk  weighed  little,  and  went  first,  with 
a  long  pole  crosswise  in  her  hands  in  chance  she 
broke  through.  But  she  was  light,  and  her  shoes 
large,  and  she  passed  over.  Then  she  called  the 
dogs.  But  they  had  neither  poles  nor  shoes,  and 
they  broke  through  and  were  swept  under  by  the 
water.  I  held  tight  to  the  sled  from  behind,  till 
the  traces  broke  and  the  dogs  went  on  down  under 
the  ice.  There  was  little  meat  to  them,  but  I  had 
counted  on  them  for  a  week's  grub,  and  they  were 
gone. 

"The  next  morning  I  divided  all  the  grub, 
which  was  little,  into  three  portions.  And  I 
told  Long  Jeff  that  he  could  keep  up  with  us,  or 
not,  as  he  saw  fit;  for  we  were  going  to  travel 
light  and  fast.  But  he  raised  his  voice  and  cried 
over  his  sore  feet  and  his  troubles,  and  said  harsh 
things  against  comradeship.  Passuk's  feet  were 


174  Grit  of  Women 

sore,  and  my  feet  were  sore  —  ay,  sorer  than  his, 
for  we  had  worked  with  the  dogs ;  also,  we  looked 
to  see.  Long  Jeff  swore  he  would  die  before  he 
hit  the  trail  again;  so  Passuk  took  a  fur  robe,  and 
I  a  cooking  pot  and  an  axe,  and  we  made  ready  to 
go.  But  she  looked  on  the  man's  portion,  and 
said,  '  It  is  wrong  to  waste  good  food  on  a  baby. 
He  is  better  dead.'  I  shook  my  head  and  said  no 
—  that  a  comrade  once  was  a  comrade  always. 
Then  she  spoke  of  the  men  of  Forty  Mile;  that 
they  were  many  men  and  good;  and  that  they 
looked  to  me  for  grub  in  the  spring.  But  when  I 
still  said  no,  she  snatched  the  pistol  from  my  belt, 
quick,  and  as  our  brother  Bettles  has  spoken,  Long 
Jeff  went  to  the  bosom  of  Abraham  before  his 
time.  I  chided  Passuk  for  this ;  but  she  showed 
no  sorrow,  nor  was  she  sorrowful.  And  in  my 
heart  I  knew  she  was  right." 
Sitka  Charley  paused  and  threw  pieces  of  ice  into 
the  gold  pan  on  the  stove.  The  men  were  silent, 
and  their  backs  chilled  to  the  sobbing  cries  of  the  dogs 
as  they  gave  tongue  to  their  misery  in  the  outer  cold. 


Grit  of  Women  1 75 

"  And  day  by  day  we  passed  in  the  snow  the 
sleeping-places  of  the  two  ghosts  —  Passuk  and  I 
—  and  we  knew  we  would  be  glad  for  such  ere 
we  made  Salt  Water.  Then  we  came  to  the 
Indian,  like  another  ghost,  with  his  face  set 
toward  Pelly.  They  had  not  whacked  up  fair, 
the  man  and  the  boy,  he  said,  and  he  had  had  no 
flour  for  three  days.  Each  night  he  boiled  pieces 
of  his  moccasins  in  a  cup,  and  ate  them.  He  did 
not  have  much  moccasins  left.  And  he  was  a 
Coast  Indian,  and  told  us  these  things  through 
Passuk,  who  talked  his  tongue.  He  was  a 
stranger  in  the  Yukon,  and  he  knew  not  the 
way,  but  his  face  was  set  to  Pelly.  How  far  was 
it  ?  Two  sleeps  ?  ten  ?  a  hundred  ?  —  he  did  not 
know,  but  he  was  going  to  Pelly.  It  was  too  far 
to  turn  back ;  he  could  only  keep  on. 

"  He  did  not  ask  for  grub,  for  he  could  see  we, 
too,  were  hard  put.  Passuk  looked  at  the  man, 
and  at  me,  as  though  she  were  of  two  minds,  like 
a  mother  partridge  whose  young  are  in  trouble. 
So  I  turned  to  her  and  said,  c  This  man  has  been 


176  Grit  of  Women 

dealt  unfair.  Shall  I  give  him  of  our  grub  a  por- 
tion ? '  I  saw  her  eyes  light,  as  with  quick  pleas- 
ure ;  but  she  looked  long  at  the  man  and  at  me, 
and  her  mouth  drew  close  and  hard,  and  she  said, 
'  No.  The  Salt  Water  is  afar  off,  and  Death  lies 
in  wait.  Better  it  is  that  he  take  this  stranger 
man  and  let  my  man  Charley  pass.'  So  the  man 
went  away  in  the  Silence  toward  Pelly.  That 
night  she  wept.  Never  had  I  seen  her  weep  be- 
fore. Nor  was  it  the  smoke  of  the  fire,  for  the 
wood  was  dry  wood.  So  I  marveled  at  her 
sorrow,  and  thought  her  woman's  heart  had 
grown  soft  at  the  darkness  of  the  trail  and  the 
pain. 

"Life  is  a  strange  thing.  Much  have  I  thought 
on  it,  and  pondered  long,  yet  daily  the  strangeness 
of  it  grows  not  less,  but  more.  Why  this  longing 
for  Life  ?  It  is  a  game  which  no  man  wins.  To 
live  is  to  toil  hard,  and  to  suffer  sore,  till  Old  Age 
creeps  heavily  upon  us  and  we  throw  down  our 
hands  on  the  cold  ashes  of  dead  fires.  It  is  hard 
to  live.  In  pain  the  babe  sucks  his  first  breath, 


Grit  of  Women  177 

in  pain  the  old  man  gasps  his  last,  and  all  his  days 
are  full  of  trouble  and  sorrow ;  yet  he  goes  down 
to  the  open  arms  of  Death,  stumbling,  falling, 
with  head  turned  backward,  righting  to  the  last. 
And  Death  is  kind.  It  is  only  Life,  and  the 
things  of  Life  that  hurt.  Yet  we  love  Life,  and 
we  hate  Death.  It  is  very  strange. 
"We  spoke  little,  Passuk  and  I,  in  the  days  which 
came.  In  the  night  we  lay  in  the  snow  like  dead 
people,  and  in  the  morning  we  went  on  our  way, 
walking  like  dead  people.  And  all  things  were 
dead.  There  were  no  ptarmigan,  no  squirrels,  no 
snowshoe  rabbits,  —  nothing.  The  river  made  no 
sound  beneath  its  white  robes.  The  sap  was 
frozen  in  the  forest.  And  it  became  cold,  as 
now ;  and  in  the  night  the  stars  drew  near  and 
large,  and  leaped  and  danced ;  and  in  the  day  the 
sun-dogs  mocked  us  till  we  saw  many  suns,  and 
all  the  air  flashed  and  sparkled,  and  the  snow  was 
diamond  dust.  And  there  was  no  heat,  no  sound, 
only  the  bitter  cold  and  the  Silence.  As  I  say, 
we  walked  like  dead  people,  as  in  a  dream,  and  we 

12 


178  Grit  of  Women 

kept  no  count  of  time.  Only  our  faces  were  set 
to  Salt  Water,  our  souls  strained  for  Salt  Water, 
and  our  feet  carried  us  toward  Salt  Water.  We 
camped  by  the  Tahkeena,  and  knew  it  not.  Our 
eyes  looked  upon  the  White  Horse,  but  we  saw  it 
not.  Our  feet  trod  the  portage  of  the  Canyon, 
but  they  felt  it  not.  We  felt  nothing.  And  we 
fell  often  by  the  way,  but  we  fell,  always,  with  our 
faces  toward  Salt  Water. 

u  Our  last  grub  went,  and  we  had  shared  fair, 
Passuk  and  I,  but  she  fell  more  often,  and  at 
Caribou  Crossing  her  strength  left  her.  And  in 
the  morning  we  lay  beneath  the  one  robe  and  did 
not  take  the  trail.  It  was  in  my  mind  to  stay 
there  and  meet  Death  hand-in-hand  with  Passuk ; 
for  I  had  grown  old,  and  had  learned  the  love  of 
woman.  Also,  it  was  eighty  miles  to  Haines 
Mission,  and  the  great  Chilcoot,  far  above  the 
timber-line,  reared  his  storm-swept  head  between. 
But  Passuk  spoke  to  me,  low,  with  my  ear  against 
her  lips  that  I  might  hear.  And  now,  because  she 
need  not  fear  my  anger,  she  spoke  her  heart,  and 


Grit  of  Women  1 79 

told  me  of  her  love,  and  of  many  things  which  I 
did  not  understand. 

u  And  she  said  :  '  You  are  my  man,  Charley,  and 
I  have  been  a  good  woman  to  you.  And  in  all 
the  days  I  have  made  your  fire,  and  cooked  your 
food,  and  fed  your  dogs,  and  lifted  paddle  or 
broken  trail,  I  have  not  complained.  Nor  did  I 
say  that  there  was  more  warmth  in  the  lodge  of 
my  father,  or  that  there  was  more  grub  on  the 
Chilcat.  When  you  have  spoken,  I  have  listened. 
When  you  have  ordered,  I  have  obeyed.  Is  it  not 
so,  Charley  ?  ' 

u  And  I  said  :  '  Ay,  it  is  so/ 

u  And  she  said  :  '  When  first  you  came  to  the 
Chilcat,  nor  looked  upon  me,  but  bought  me  as 
a  man  buys  a  dog,  and  took  me  away,  my  heart 
was  hard  against  you  and  filled  with  bitterness  and 
fear.  But  that  was  long  ago.  For  you  were  kind 
to  me,  Charley,  as  a  good  man  is  kind  to  his  dog. 
Your  heart  was  cold,  and  there  was  no  room  for 
me;  yet  you  dealt  me  fair  and  your  ways  were 
just.  And  I  was  with  you  when  you  did  bold 


1 80  Grit  of  Women 

deeds  and  led  great  ventures,  and  I  measured  you 
against  the  men  of  other  breeds,  and  I  saw  you 
stood  among  them  full  of  honor,  and  your  word 
was  wise,  your  tongue  true.  And  I  grew  proud 
of  you,  till  it  came  that  you  filled  all  my  heart, 
and  all  my  thought  was  of  you.  You  were  as  the 
midsummer  sun,  when  its  golden  trail  runs  in  a 
circle  and  never  leaves  the  sky.  And  whatever 
way  I  cast  my  eyes  I  beheld  the  sun.  But  your 
heart  was  ever  cold,  Charley,  and  there  was  no 
room.' 

"  And  I  said  :  c  It  is  so.  It  was  cold,  and  there 
was  no  room.  But  that  is  past.  Now  my  heart 
is  like  the  snowfall  in  the  spring,  when  the  sun 
has  come  back.  There  is  a  great  thaw  and  a 
bending,  a  sound  of  running  waters,  and  a  budding 
and  sprouting  of  green  things.  And  there  is  drum- 
ming of  partridges,  and  songs  of  robins,  and  great 
music,  for  the  winter  is  broken,  Passuk,  and  I 
have  learned  the  love  of  woman.' 
"  She  smiled  and  moved  for  me  to  draw  her  closer. 
And  she  said,  *  I  am  glad.'  After  that  she  lay 


Grit  of  Women  1 8 1 

quiet  for  a  long  time,  breathing  softly,  her  head 
upon  my  breast.  Then  she  whispered :  '  The 
trail  ends  here,  and  I  am  tired.  But  first  I  would 
speak  of  other  things.  In  the  long  ago,  when  I 
was  a  girl  on  the  Chilcat,  I  played  alone  among 
the  skin  bales  of  my  father's  lodge ;  for  the  men 
were  away  on  the  hunt,  and  the  women  and  boys 
were  dragging  in  the  meat.  It  was  in  the  spring, 
and  I  was  alone.  A  great  brown  bear,  just  awake 
from  his  winter's  sleep,  hungry,  his  fur  hanging  to 
the  bones  in  flaps  of  leanness,  shoved  his  head 
within  the  lodge  and  said,  "  Oof!"  My  brother 
came  running  back  with  the  first  sled  of  meat. 
And  he  fought  the  bear  with  burning  sticks  from 
the  fire,  and  the  dogs  in  their  harnesses,  with  the 
sled  behind  them,  fell  upon  the  bear.  There  was 
a  great  battle  and  much  noise.  They  rolled  in 
the  fire,  the  skin  bales  were  scattered,  the  lodge 
overthrown.  But  in  the  end  the  bear  lay  dead, 
with  the  fingers  of  my  brother  in  his  mouth  and 
the  marks  of  his  claws  upon  my  brother's  face. 
Did  you  mark  the  Indian  by  the  Pelly  trail,  his 


1 82  Grit  of  Women 

mitten  which  had  no  thumb,  his  hand  which  he 
warmed  by  our  fire  ?  He  was  my  brother.  And 
I  said  he  should  have  no  grub.  And  he  went 
away  in  the  Silence  without  grub.' 
"  This,  my  brothers,  was  the  love  of  Passuk,  who 
died  in  the  snow,  by  the  Caribou  Crossing.  It 
was  a  mighty  love,  for  she  denied  her  brother 
for  the  man  who  led  her  away  on  weary  trails  to 
a  bitter  end.  And,  further,  such  was  this  woman's 
love,  she  denied  herself.  Ere  her  eyes  closed  for 
the  last  time  she  took  my  hand  and  slipped  it 
under  her  squirrel-skin  parka  to  her  waist.  I  felt 
there  a  well-filled  pouch,  and  learned  the  secret  of 
her  lost  strength.  Day  by  day  we  had  shared  fair, 
to  the  last  least  bit;  and  day  by  day  but  half  her 
share  had  she  eaten.  The  other  half  had  gone 
into  the  well-filled  pouch. 

"  And  she  said :  c  This  is  the  end  of  the  trail 
for  Passuk  ;  but  your  trail,  Charley,  leads  on  and 
on,  over  the  great  Chilcoot,  down  to  Haines  Mis- 
sion and  the  sea.  And  it  leads  on  and  on,  by 
the  light  of  many  suns,  over  unknown  lands  and 


Grit  of  Women  183 

strange  waters,  and  it  is  full  of  years  and  honors 
and  great  glories.  It  leads  you  to  the  lodges  of 
many  women,  and  good  women,  but  it  will  never 
lead  you  to  a  greater  love  than  the  love  of  Passuk.' 
"And  I  knew  the  woman  spoke  true.  But  a 
madness  came  upon  me,  and  I  threw  the  well- 
filled  pouch  from  me,  and  swore  that  my  trail 
had  reached  an  end,  till  her  tired  eyes  grew  soft 
with  tears,  and  she  said  :  c  Among  men  has  Sitka 
Charley  walked  in  honor,  and  ever  has  his  word 
been  true.  Does  he  forget  that  honor  now,  and 
talk  vain  words  by  the  Caribou  Crossing  ?  Does 
he  remember  no  more  the  men  of  Forty  Mile, 
who  gave  him  of  their  grub  the  best,  of  their  dogs 
the  pick  ?  Ever  has  Passuk  been  proud  of  her 
man.  Let  him  lift  himself  up,  gird  on  his  snow- 
shoes,  and  begone,  that  she  may  still  keep  her 
pride/ 

"  And  when  she  grew  cold  in  my  arms  I  arose, 
and  sought  out  the  well-filled  pouch,  and  girt  on 
my  snowshoes,  and  staggered  along  the  trail ;  for 
there  was  a  weakness  in  my  knees,  and  my  head 


1 84  Grit  of  Women 

was  dizzy,  and  in  my  ears  there  was  a  roaring,  and 
a  flashing  of  fire  upon  my  eyes.  The  forgotten 
trails  of  boyhood  came  back  to  me.  I  sat  by  the 
full  pots  of  the  potlack  feast,  and  raised  my  voice 
in  song,  and  danced  to  the  chanting  of  the  men 
and  maidens  and  the  booming  of  the  walrus  drums. 
And  Passuk  held  my  hand  and  walked  by  my  side. 
When  I  laid  down  to  sleep,  she  waked  me. 
When  I  stumbled  and  fell,  she  raised  me.  When 
I  wandered  in  the  deep  snow,  she  led  me  back  to 
the  trail.  And  in  this  wise,  like  a  man  bereft 
of  reason,  who  sees  strange  visions  and  whose 
thoughts  are  light  with  wine,  I  came  to  Haines 
Mission  by  the  sea." 

Sitka  Charley  threw  back  the  tent-flaps.  It  was 
midday.  To  the  south,  just  clearing  the  bleak 
Henderson  Divide,  poised  the  cold-disked  sun. 
On  either  hand  the  sun-dogs  blazed.  The  air 
was  a  gossamer  of  glittering  frost.  In  the  fore- 
ground, beside  the  trail,  a  wolf-dog,  bristling 
with  frost,  thrust  a  long  snout  heavenward  and 
mourned. 


Where  The  Trail  Forks 

"  Must  I,  then,  must  I,  then,  now  leave  this  town  — 
And  you,  my  love,  stay  here  ?  "  —  Schwabian  Folk-song. 

THE  singer,  clean-faced  and  cheery-eyed, 
bent  over  and  added  water  to  a  pot  of 
simmering  beans,  and  then,  rising,  a 
stick  of  firewood  in  hand,  drove  back  the  circling 
dogs  from  the  grub-box  and  cooking-gear.  He 
was  blue  of  eye,  and  his  long  hair  was  golden, 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  upon  his  lusty 
freshness.  A  new  moon  was  thrusting  a  dim 
horn  above  the  white  line  of  close-packed  snow- 
capped pines  which  ringed  the  camp  and  segre- 
gated it  from  all  the  world.  Overhead,  so  clear  it 
was  and  cold,  the  stars  danced  with  quick,  pulsat- 
ing movements.  To  the  southeast  an  evanescent 
greenish  glow  heralded  the  opening  revels  of  the 
aurora  borealis.  Two  men,  in  the  immediate 


1 86         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

foreground,  lay  upon  the  bearskin  which  was 
their  bed.  Between  the  skin  and  naked  snow 
was  a  six-inch  layer  of  pine  boughs.  The  blank- 
ets were  rolled  back.  For  shelter,  there  was  a 
fly  at  their  backs,  —  a  sheet  of  canvas  stretched  be- 
tween two  trees  and  angling  at  forty-five  degrees. 
This  caught  the  radiating  heat  from  the  fire  and 
flung  it  down  upon  the  skin.  Another  man  sat  on 
a  sled,  drawn  close  to  the  blaze,  mending  mocca- 
sins. To  the  right,  a  heap  of  frozen  gravel  and 
a  rude  windlass  denoted  where  they  toiled  each  day 
in  dismal  groping  for  the  pay-streak.  To  the  left, 
four  pairs  of  snowshoes  stood  erect,  showing  the 
mode  of  travel  which  obtained  when  the  stamped 
snow  of  the  camp  was  left  behind. 
That  Schwabian  folk-song  sounded  strangely  pa- 
thetic under  the  cold  northern  stars,  and  did  not 
do  the  men  good  who  lounged  about  the  fire  after 
the  toil  of  the  day.  It  put  a  dull  ache  into  their 
hearts,  and  a  yearning  which  was  akin  to  belly- 
hunger,  and  sent  their  souls  questing  southward 
across  the  divides  to  the  sun-lands. 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         187 

"  For  the  love  of  God,  Sigmund,  shut  up  !  "  ex- 
postulated one  of  the  men.  His  hands  were 
clenched  painfully,  but  he  hid  them  from  sight  in 
the  folds  of  the  bearskin  upon  which  he  lay. 
"  And  what  for,  Dave  Wertz  ? "  Sigmund  de- 
manded. "  Why  shall  I  not  sing  when  the  heart 
is  glad?" 

u  Because  you  've  got  no  call  to,  that 's  why. 
Look  about  you,  man,  and  think  of  the  grub 
we've  been  defiling  our  bodies  with  for  the  last 
twelvemonth,  and  the  way  we  've  lived  and 
worked  like  beasts  !  " 

Thus  abjured,  Sigmund,  the  golden-haired,  sur- 
veyed it  all,  and  the  frost-rimmed  wolf-dogs  and 
the  vapor  breaths  of  the  men.  u  And  why  shall 
not  the  heart  be  glad  ? "  he  laughed.  "  It  is 
good ;  it  is  all  good.  As  for  the  grub  —  " 
He  doubled  up  his  arm  and  caressed  the  swell- 
ing biceps.  "  And  if  we  have  lived  and  worked 
like  beasts,  have  we  not  been  paid  like  kings  ? 
Twenty  dollars  to  the  pan  the  streak  is  running, 
and  we  know  it  to  be  eight  feet  thick.  It  is  an- 


1 88        Where  the  Trail  Forks 

other  Klondike — and  we  know  it  —  Jim  Hawes 
there,  by  your  elbow,  knows  it  and  complains  not. 
And  there  's  Hitchcock !  He  sews  moccasins  like 
an  old  woman,  and  waits  against  the  time.  Only 
you  can't  wait  and  work  until  the  wash-up  in  the 
spring.  Then  we  shall  all  be  rich,  rich  as  kings, 
only  you  cannot  wait.  You  want  to  go  back  to 
the  States.  So  do  I,  and  I  was  born  there,  but 
I  can  wait,  when  each  day  the  gold  in  the  pan 
shows  up  yellow  as  butter  in  the  churning.  But 
you  want  your  good  time,  and,  like  a  child,  you 
cry  for  it  now.  Bah  !  Why  shall  I  not  sing : 

"  In  a  year,  in  a  year,  when  the  grapes  are  ripe, 

I  shall  stay  no  more  away. 
Then  if  you  still  are  true,  my  love, 

It  will  be  our  wedding  day. 
In  a  year,  in  a  year,  when  my  time  is  past, 

Then  I'll  live  in  your  love  for  aye. 
Then  if  you  still  are  true,  my  love, 

It  will  be  our  wedding  day." 

The  dogs,  bristling  and  growling,  drew  in  closer 
to  the  firelight.  There  was  a  monotonous  crunch- 
crunch  of  webbed  shoes,  and  between  each  crunch 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         189 

the  dragging  forward  of  the  heel  of  the  shoe  like 
the  sound  of  sifting  sugar.  Sigmund  broke  off  from 
his  song  to  hurl  oaths  and  firewood  at  the  animals. 
Then  the  light  was  parted  by  a  fur-clad  figure, 
and  an  Indian  girl  slipped  out  of  the  webs,  threw 
back  the  hood  of  her  squirrel-skin  parka^  and 
stood  in  their  midst.  Sigmund  and  the  men  on 
the  bearskin  greeted  her  as  ct  Sipsu,"  with  the 
customary  "  Hello,"  but  Hitchcock  made  room 
on  the  sled  that  she  might  sit  beside  him. 
"  And  how  goes  it,  Sipsu  ?  "  he  asked,  talking, 
after  her  fashion,  in  broken  English  and  bastard 
Chinook.  "  Is  the  hunger  still  mighty  in  the 
camp  ?  and  has  the  witch  doctor  yet  found  the 
cause  wherefore  game  is  scarce  and  no  moose  in 
the  land  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  even  so.  There  is  little  game,  and  we 
prepare  to  eat  the  dogs.  Also  has  the  witch 
doctor  found  the  cause  of  all  this  evil,  and  to- 
morrow will  he  make  sacrifice  and  cleanse  the 
camp." 
u  And  what  does  the  sacrifice  chance  to  be  ?  — 


190         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

a  new-born  babe  or  some  poor  devil  of  a  squaw, 
old  and  shaky,  who  is  a  care  to  the  tribe  and  better 
out  of  the  way  ?  " 

"  It  chanced  not  that  wise ;  for  the  need  was 
great,  and  he  chose  none  other  than  the  chiefs 
daughter;  none  other  than  I,  Sipsu." 
"Hell!"  The  word  rose  slowly  to  Hitchcock's 
lips,  and  brimmed  over  full  and  deep,  in  a  way 
which  bespoke  wonder  and  consideration. 
"  Wherefore  we  stand  by  a  forking  of  the  trail, 
you  and  I,"  she  went  on  calmly,  "  and  I  have 
come  that  we  may  look  once  more  upon  each 
other,  and  once  more  only." 
She  was  born  of  primitive  stock,  and  primitive  had 
been  her  traditions  and  her  days  ;  so  she  regarded 
life  stoically,  and  human  sacrifice  as  part  of  the 
natural  order.  The  powers  which  ruled  the  day- 
light and  the  dark,  the  flood  and  the  frost,  the 
bursting  of  the  bud  and  the  withering  of  the  leaf, 
were  angry  and  in  need  of  propitiation.  This 
they  exacted  in  many  ways,  —  death  in  the  bad 
water,  through  the  treacherous  ice-crust,  by  the 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         191 

grip  of  the  grizzly,  or  a  wasting  sickness  which 
fell  upon  a  man  in  his  own  lodge  till  he  coughed, 
and  the  life  of  his  lungs  went  out  through  his 
mouth  and  nostrils..  Likewise  did  the  powers  re- 
ceive sacrifice.  It  was  all  one.  And  the  witch 
doctor  was  versed  in  the  thoughts  of  the  powers 
and  chose  unerringly.  It  was  very  natural.  Death 
came  by  many  ways,  yet  was  it  all  one  after 
all,  —  a  manifestation  of  the  all-powerful  and 
inscrutable. 

But  Hitchcock  came  of  a  later  world-breed.  His 
traditions  were  less  concrete  and  without  rever- 
ence, and  he  said,  "  Not  so,  Sipsu.  You  are 
young,  and  yet  in  the  full  joy  of  life.  The 
witch  doctor  is  a  fool,  and  his  choice  is  evil. 
This  thing  shall  not  be." 

She  smiled  and  answered,  "  Life  is  not  kind,  and 
for  many  reasons.  First,  it  made  of  us  twain  the 
one  white  and  the  other  red,  which  is  bad.  Then 
it  crossed  our  trails,  and  now  it  parts  them  again ; 
and  we  can  do  nothing.  Once  before,  when  the 
gods  were  angry,  did  your  brothers  come  to  the 


192        Where  the  Trail  Forks 

camp.       They   were    three,   big    men   and    white, 

and  they  said  the  thing  shall   not  be.      But  they 

died  quickly,  and  the  thing  was." 

Hitchcock    nodded    that    he    heard,    half-turned, 

and  lifted  his  voice.     "  Look  here,  you  fellows  ! 

There  's   a   lot   of  foolery  going  on   over  to  the 

camp,  and  they  're  getting  ready  to  murder  Sipsu. 

What  d'  ye  say  ?  " 

Wertz  looked  at  Hawes,  and  Hawes  looked  back, 

but  neither  spoke.     Sigmund  dropped  his  head,  and 

petted  the  shepherd  dog  between  his  knees.     He 

had  brought  Shep  in  with  him  from  the  outside, 

and  thought  a  great  deal  of  the  animal.      In  fact, 

a  certain  girl,  who  was  much  in  his  thoughts,  and 

whose   picture  in  the   little   locket   on   his   breast 

often  inspired  him  to  sing,  had  given  him  the  dog 

and   her   blessing  when  they  kissed   good-by  and 

he  started  on  his  Northland  quest. 

"  What  d'  ye  say  ?  "  Hitchcock  repeated. 

u  Mebbe  it 's   not   so   serious,"   Hawes   answered 

with  deliberation.     "  Most  likely  it 's  only  a  girl's 

story." 


Where  the  Trail  Forks  193 
"  That  is  n't  the  point !  "  Hitchcock  felt  a  hot 
flush  of  anger  sweep  over  him  at  their  evident 
reluctance.  "  The  question  is,  if  it  is  so,  are 
we  going  to  stand  it  ?  What  are  we  going 
to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  any  call  to  interfere,"  spoke  up 
Wertz.  "  If  it  is  so,  it  is  so,  and  that 's  all 
there  is  about  it.  It 's  a  way  these  people  have 
of  doing.  It 's  their  religion,  and  it 's  no  concern 
of  ours.  Our  concern  is  to  get  the  dust  and  then 
get  out  of  this  God-forsaken  land.  'T  is  n't  fit  for 
naught  else  but  beasts  ?  And  what  are  these  black 
devils  but  beasts  ?  Besides,  it  'd  be  damn  poor 
policy." 

"  That 's  what  I  say,"  chimed  in  Hawes. 
"  Here  we  are,  four  of  us,  three  hundred  miles 
from  the  Yukon  or  a  white  face.  And  what  can 
we  do  against  half-a-hundred  Indians  ?  If  we 
quarrel  with  them,  we  have  to  vamose  ;  if  we  fight, 
we  are  wiped  out.  Further,  we  've  struck  pay, 
and,  by  God  !  I,  for  one,  am  going  to  stick 
by  it  ! " 


1 94         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

"  Ditto  here,"  supplemented  Wertz. 

Hitchcock   turned    impatiently   to    Sigmund,   who 

was  softly  singing,  — 

"  In  a  year,  in  a  year,  when  the  grapes  are  ripe, 
I  shall  stay  no  more  away." 

"  Well,  it 's  this  way,  Hitchcock,"  he  finally  said, 
"  I  Jm  in  the  same  boat  with  the  rest.  If  three- 
score bucks  have  made  up  their  mind  to  kill  the 
girl,  why,  we  can't  help  it.  One  rush,  and  we  'd 
be  wiped  off  the  landscape.  And  what  good  'd 
that  be  ?  They  'd  still  have  the  girl.  There  's 
no  use  in  going  against  the  customs  of  a  people 
except  you  're  in  force." 

"  But  we  are  in  force !  "  Hitchcock  broke  in. 
"Four  whites  are  a  match  for  a  hundred  times 
as  many  reds.  And  think  of  the  girl !  " 
Sigmund  stroked  the  dog  meditatively.  "  But  I 
do  think  of  the  girl.  And  her  eyes  are  blue  like 
summer  skies,  and  laughing  like  summer  seas, 
and  her  hair  is  yellow,  like  mine,  and  braided 
in  ropes  the  size  of  a  big  man's  arms.  She 's 
waiting  for  me,  out  there,  in  a  better  land.  And 


Where  the  Trail  Forks  195 
she  's  waited  long,  and  now  my  pile  's  in  sight  I  'm 
not  going  to  throw  it  away." 

"  And  shamed  I  would  be  to  look  into  the  girl's 
blue  eyes  and  remember  the  black  ones  of  the 
girl  whose  blopd  was  on  my  hands,"  Hitchcock 
sneered ;  for  he  was  born  to  honor  and  champion- 
ship, and  to  do  the  thing  for  the  thing's  sake,  nor 
stop  to  weigh  or  measure. 

Sigmund  shook  his  head.  "  You  can't  make  me 
mad,  Hitchcock,  nor  do  mad  things  because  of 
your  madness.  It 's  a  cold  business  proposition 
and  a  question  of  facts.  I  did  n't  come  to  this 
country  for  my  health,  and,  further,  it 's  impos- 
sible for  us  to  raise  a  hand.  If  it  is  so,  it  is  too 
bad  for  the  girl,  that 's  all.  It  's  a  way  of  her 
people,  and  it  just  happens  we  're  on  the  spot 
this  one  time.  They  've  done  the  same  for  a  thou- 
sand-thousand years,  and  they  're  going  to  do  it 
now,  and  they  '11  go  on  doing  it  for  all  time  to 
come.  Besides,  they  're  not  our  kind.  Nor  's  the 
girl.  No,  I  take  my  stand  with  Wertz  and 
Hawes,  and  —  " 


196         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

But  the  dogs  snarled  and  drew  in,  and  he  broke  off, 
listening  to  the  crunch-crunch  of  many  snowshoes. 
Indian  after  Indian  stalked  into  the  firelight,  tall 
and  grim,  fur-clad  and  silent,  their  shadows  danc- 
ing grotesquely  on  the  snow.  One,  the  witch 
doctor,  spoke  gutturally  to  Sipsu.  His  face  was 
daubed  with  savage  paint  blotches,  and  over  his 
shoulders  was  drawn  a  wolfskin,  the  gleaming  teeth 
and  cruel  snout  surmounting  his  head.  No  other 
word  was  spoken.  The  prospectors  held  the  peace. 
Sipsu  arose  and  slipped  into  her  snowshoes. 
"  Good-by,  O  my  man,"  she  said  to  Hitchcock. 
But  the  man  who  had  sat  beside  her  on  the  sled 
gave  no  sign,  nor  lifted  his  head  as  they  filed  away 
into  the  white  forest. 

Unlike  many  men,  his  faculty  of  adaptation, 
while  large,  had  never  suggested  the  expediency 
of  an  alliance  with  the  women  of  the  Northland. 
His  broad  cosmopolitanism  had  never  impelled 
toward  covenanting  in  marriage  with  the  daughters 
of  the  soil.  If  it  had,  his  philosophy  of  life  would 
not  have  stood  between.  But  it  simply  had  not. 


Where  the  Trail  Forks  197 
Sipsu  ?  He  had  pleasured  in  camp-fire  chats  with 
her,  not  as  a  man  who  knew  himself  to  be  man 
and  she  woman,  but  as  a  man  might  with  a  child, 
and  as  a  man  of  his  make  certainly  would  if  for 
no  other  reason  than  to  vary  the  tedium  of  a  bleak 
existence.  That  was  all.  But  there  was  a  certain 
chivalric  thrill  of  warm  blood  in  him,  despite  his 
Yankee  ancestry  and  New  England  upbringing, 
and  he  was  so  made  that  the  commercial  aspect 
of  life  often  seemed  meaningless  and  bore  con- 
tradiction to  his  deeper  impulses. 
So  he  sat  silent,  with  head  bowed  forward,  an 
organic  force,  greater  than  himself,  as  great  as  his 
race,  at  work  within  him.  Wertz  and  Hawes 
looked  askance  at  him  from  time  to  time,  a  faint 
but  perceptible  trepidation  in  their  manner.  Sig- 
mund  also  felt  this.  Hitchcock  was  strong,  and 
his  strength  had  been  impressed  upon  them  in  the 
course  of  many  an  event  in  their  precarious  life. 
So  they  stood  in  a  certain  definite  awe  and  curi- 
osity as  to  what  his  conduct  would  be  when  he 
moved  to  action. 


198         Where  the  Trail  Forks 
But  his  silence  was  long,  and  the  fire  nigh  out, 
when  Wertz  stretched  his  arms  and  yawned,  and 
thought  he  'd  go  to  bed.     Then  Hitchcock  stood 
up  his  full  height. 

"  May  God  damn  your  souls  to  the  deepest  hells, 
you  chicken-hearted  cowards !  I  'm  done  with 
you  !  "  He  said  it  calmly  enough,  but  his  strength 
spoke  in  every  syllable,  and  every  intonation  was 
advertisement  of  intention.  u  Come  on,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  whack  up,  and  in  whatever  way  suits 
you  best.  I  own  a  quarter-interest  in  the  claims  ; 
our  contracts  show  that.  There  're  twenty-five 
or  thirty  ounces  in  the  sack  from  the  test  pans. 
Fetch  out  the  scales.  We'll  divide  that  now. 
And  you,  Sigmund,  measure  me  my  quarter-share 
of  the  grub  and  set  it  apart.  Four  of  the  dogs  are 
mine,  and  I  want  four  more.  I  '11  trade  you  my 
share  in  the  camp  outfit  and  mining-gear  for  the 
dogs.  And  I  '11  throw  in  my  six  or  seven  ounces 
and  the  spare  45-90  with  the  ammunition.  What 
d'  ye  say  ?  " 
The  three  men  drew  apart  and  conferred.  When 


Where  the  Trail  Forks  199 
they  returned,  Sigmund  acted  as  spokesman.  "  We  '11 
whack  up  fair  with  you,  Hitchcock.  In  every- 
thing you  '11  get  your  quarter-share,  neither  more 
nor  less ;  and  you  can  take  it  or  leave  it.  But  we 
want  the  dogs  as  bad  as  you  do,  so  you  get  four, 
and  that 's  all.  If  you  don't  want  to  take  your 
share  of  the  outfit  and  gear,  why,  that 's  your  look- 
out. If  you  want  it,  you  can  have  it ;  if  you 
don't,  leave  it." 

"  The  letter  of  the  law,"  Hitchcock  sneered. 
u  But  go  ahead.  I  'm  willing.  And  hurry  up. 
I  can't  get  out  of  this  camp  and  away  from  its 
vermin  any  too  quick." 

The  division  was  effected  without  further  com- 
ment. He  lashed  his  meagre  belongings  upon 
one  of  the  sleds,  rounded  in  his  four  dogs,  and 
harnessed  up.  His  portion  of  outfit  and  gear 
he  did  not  touch,  though  he  threw  onto  the  sled 
half  a  dozen  dog  harnesses,  and  challenged  them 
with  his  eyes  to  interfere.  But  they  shrugged 
their  shoulders  and  watched  him  disappear  in  the 
forest. 


200        Where  the  Trail  Forks 

A  man  crawled  upon  his  belly  through  the  snow. 
On  every  hand  loomed  the  moose-hide  lodges  of 
the  camp.  Here  and  there  a  miserable  dog  howled 
or  snarled  abuse  upon  his  neighbor.  Once,  one 
of  them  approached  the  creeping  man,  but  the  man 
became  motionless.  The  dog  came  closer  and 
sniffed,  and  came  yet  closer,  till  its  nose  touched 
the  strange  object  which  had  not  been  there  when 
darkness  fell.  Then  Hitchcock,  for  it  was  Hitch- 
cock, upreared  suddenly,  shooting  an  unmittened 
hand  out  to  the  brute's  shaggy  throat.  And  the  dog 
knew  its  death  in  that  clutch,  and  when  the  man 
moved  on,  was  left  broken-necked  under  the  stars. 
In  this  manner  Hitchcock  made  the  chief's  lodge. 
For  long  he  lay  in  the  snow  without,  listening  to 
the  voices  of  the  occupants  and  striving  to  locate 
Sipsu.  Evidently  there  were  many  in  the  tent,  and 
from  the  sounds  they  were  in  high  excitement. 
At  last  he  heard  the  girl's  voice,  and  crawled 
around  so  that  only  the  moose-hide  divided  them. 
Then  burrowing  in  the  snow,  he  slowly  wormed 
his  head  and  shoulders  underneath.  When  the 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         201 

warm  inner  air  smote  his  face,  he  stopped  and 
waited,  his  legs  and  the  greater  part  of  his  body 
still  on  the  outside.  He  could  see  nothing,  nor 
did  he  dare  lift  his  head.  On  one  side  of  him 
was  a  skin  bale.  He  could  smell  it,  though  he 
carefully  felt  to  be  certain.  On  the  other  side  his 
face  barely  touched  a  furry  garment  which  he 
knew  clothed  a  body.  This  must  be  Sipsu. 
Though  he  wished  she  would  speak  again,  he  re- 
solved to  risk  it. 

He  could  hear  the  chief  and  the  witch  doctor  talk- 
ing high,  and  in  a  far  corner  some  hungry  child 
whimpering  to  sleep.  Squirming  over  on  his  side, 
he  carefully  raised  his  head,  still  just  touching  the 
furry  garment.  He  listened  to  the  breathing.  It 
was  a  woman's  breathing ;  he  would  chance  it. 
He  pressed  against  her  side  softly  but  firmly,  and 
felt  her  start  at  the  contact.  Again  he  waited,  till 
a  questioning  hand  slipped  down  upon  his  head 
and  paused  among  the  curls.  The  next  instant 
the  hand  turned  his  face  gently  upward,  and  he 
was  gazing  into  Sipsu's  eyes. 


202  Where  the  Trail  Forks 
She  was  quite  collected.  Changing  her  position 
casually,  she  threw  an  elbow  well  over  on  the  skin 
bale,  rested  her  body  upon  it,  and  arranged  her 
parka.  In  this  way  he  was  completely  concealed. 
Then,  and  still  most  casually,  she  reclined  across 
him,  so  that  he  could  breathe  between  her  arm  and 
breast,  and  when  she  lowered  her  head  her  ear 
pressed  lightly  against  his  lips. 
"When  the  time  suits,  go  thou,"  he  whispered, 
"  out  of  the  lodge  and  across  the  snow,  down  the 
wind  to  the  bunch  of  jackpine  in  the  curve  of  the 
creek.  There  wilt  thou  find  my  dogs  and  my 
sled,  packed  for  the  trail.  This  night  we  go  down 
to  the  Yukon  ;  and  since  we  go  fast,  lay  thou 
hands  upon  what  dogs  come  nigh  thee,  by  the 
scruff  of  the  neck,  and  drag  them  to  the  sled  in  the 
curve  of  the  creek." 

Sipsu  shook  her  head  in  dissent ;  but  her  eyes  glis- 
tened with  gladness,  and  she  was  proud  that  this 
man  had  shown  toward  her  such  favor.  But  she, 
like  the  women  of  all  her  race,  was  born  to  obey 
the  will  masculine,  and  when  Hitchcock  repeated 


Where  the  Trail  Forks  203 
"  Go ! "  he  did  it  with  authority,  and  though 
she  made  no  answer  he  knew  that  his  will  was 
law. 

u  And  never  mind  harness  for  the  dogs,"  he  added, 
preparing  to  go.  "  I  shall  wait.  But  waste  no 
time.  The  day  chaseth  the  night  alway,  nor  does 
it  linger  for  man's  pleasure." 

Half  an  hour  later,  stamping  his  feet  and  swinging 
his  arms  by  the  sled,  he  saw  her  coming,  a  surly 
dog  in  either  hand.  At  the  approach  of  these  his 
own  animals  waxed  truculent,  and  he  favored  them 
with  the  butt  of  his  whip  till  they  quieted.  He 
had  approached  the  camp  up  the  wind,  and  sound 
was  the  thing  to  be  most  feared  in  making  his 
presence  known. 

"  Put  them  into  the  sled,"  he  ordered  when  she 
had  got  the  harness  on  the  two  dogs.  "  I  want 
my  leaders  to  the  fore." 

But  when  she  had  done  this,  the  displaced  animals 
pitched  upon  the  aliens.  Though  Hitchcock 
plunged  among  them  with  clubbed  rifle,  a  riot  of 
sound  went  up  and  across  the  sleeping  camp. 


204         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

"  Now  we  shall  have  dogs,  and  in  plenty,"  he  re- 
marked grimly,  slipping  an  axe  from  the  sled  lash- 
ings. "Do  thou  harness  whichever  I  fling  thee, 
and  betweenwhiles  protect  the  team." 
He  stepped  a  space  in  advance  and  waited  between 
two  pines.  The  dogs  of  the  camp  were  disturb- 
ing the  night  with  their  jangle,  and  he  watched 
for  their  coming.  A  dark  spot,  growing  rapidly, 
took  form  upon  the  dim  white  expanse  of  snow. 
It  was  a  forerunner  of  the  pack,  leaping  cleanly, 
and,  after  the  wolf  fashion,  singing  direction  to  its 
brothers.  Hitchcock  stood  in  the  shadow.  As  it 
sprang  past,  he  reached  out,  gripped  its  forelegs  in 
mid-career,  and  sent  it  whirling  earthward.  Then 
he  struck  it  a  well-judged  blow  beneath  the  ear, 
and  flung  it  to  Sipsu.  And  while  she  clapped  on 
the  harness,  he,  with  his  axe,  held  the  passage  be- 
tween the  trees,  till  a  shaggy  flood  of  white  teeth 
and  glistening  eyes  surged  and  crested  just  be- 
yond reach.  Sipsu  worked  rapidly.  When  she 
had  finished,  he  leaped  forward,  seized  and  stunned 
a  second,  and  flung  it  to  her.  This  he  repeated 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         205 

thrice  again,  and  when  the  sled  team  stood  snarling 
in  a  string  of  ten,  he  called,  "  Enough  !  " 
But  at  this  instant  a  young  buck,  the  forerunner 
of  the  tribe,  and  swift  of  limb,  wading  through  the 
dogs  and  cuffing  right  and  left,  attempted  the  pas- 
sage. The  butt  of  Hitchcock's  rifle  drove  him  to 
his  knees,  whence  he  toppled  over  sideways.  The 
witch  doctor,  running  lustily,  saw  the  blow  fall. 
Hitchcock  called  to  Sipsu  to  pull  out.  At  her 
shrill  "  Chook ! "  the  maddened  brutes  shot 
straight  ahead,  and  the  sled,  bounding  mightily,  just 
missed  unseating  her.  The  powers  were  evidently 
angry  with  the  witch  doctor,  for  at  this  moment 
they  plunged  him  upon  the  trail.  The  lead-dog 
fouled  his  snowshoes  and  tripped  him  up,  and  the 
nine  succeeding  dogs  trod  him  under  foot  and  the 
sled  bumped  over  him.  But  he  was  quick  to  his 
feet,  and  the  night  might  have  turned  out  differ- 
ently had  not  Sipsu  struck  backward  with  the  long 
dog-whip  and  smitten  him  a  blinding  blow  across 
the  eyes.  Hitchcock,  hurrying  to  overtake  her, 
collided  against  him  as  he  swayed  with  pain  in  the 


206        Where  the  Trail  Forks 

middle  of  the  trail.  Thus  it  was,  when  this  prim- 
itive theologian  got  back  to  the  chief's  lodge,  that 
his  wisdom  had  been  increased  in  so  far  as  con- 
cerns the  efficacy  of  the  white  man's  fist.  So, 
when  he  orated  then  and  there  in  the  council,  he 
was  wroth  against  all  white  men. 

"Tumble  out,  you  loafers  !   Tumble  out  !   Grub  '11 
be  ready  before  you  get  into  your  footgear !  " 
Dave  Wertz  threw  off  the  bearskin,  sat  up,  and 
yawned. 

Hawes  stretched,  discovered  a  lame  muscle  in  his 
arm,  and  rubbed  it  sleepily.  "  Wonder  where 
Hitchcock  bunked  last  night  ?  "  he  queried,  reach- 
ing for  his  moccasins.  They  were  stiff,  and  he 
walked  gingerly  in  his  socks  to  the  fire  to  thaw 
them  out.  u  It 's  a  blessing  he 's  gone,"  he  added, 
"  though  he  was  a  mighty  good  worker." 
"  Yep.  Too  masterful.  That  was  his  trouble. 
Too  bad  for  Sipsu.  Think  he  cared  for  her 
much  ?  " 
"  Don't  think  so.  Just  principle.  That 's  all. 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         207 

He  thought  it  wasn't  right  —  and,  of  course,  it 
was  n't,  —  but  that  was  no  reason  for  us  to  inter- 
fere and  get  hustled  over  the  divide  before  our 
time." 

"  Principle  is  principle,  and  it 's  good  in  its  place, 
but  it 's  best  left  to  home  when  you  go  to  Alaska. 
Eh  ?  "  Wertz  had  joined  his  mate,  and  both  were 
working  pliability  into  their  frozen  moccasins. 
"  Think  we  ought  to  have  taken  a  hand  ?  " 
Sigmund  shook  his  head.  He  was  very  busy.  A 
scud  of  chocolate-colored  foam  was  rising  in  the 
coffee-pot,  and  the  bacon  needed  turning.  Also, 
he  was  thinking  about  the  girl  with  laughing 
eyes  like  summer  seas,  and  he  was  humming 
softly. 

His  mates  chuckled  to  each  other  and  ceased  talk- 
ing. Though  it  was  past  seven,  daybreak  was 
still  three  hours  distant.  The  aurora  borealis  had 
passed  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  camp  was  an  oasis 
of  light  in  the  midst  of  deep  darkness.  And  in 
this  light  the  forms  of  the  three  men  were  sharply 
defined.  Emboldened  by  the  silence,  Sigmund 


208         Where  the  Trail  Forks 

raised  his  voice  and  opened  the  last  stanza  of  the 
old  song  :  — 

"  In  a  year,  in  a  year,  when  the  grapes  are  ripe  —  " 
Then  the  night  was  split  with  a  rattling  volley  of 
rifle-shots.  Hawes  sighed,  made  an  effort  to 
straighten  himself,  and  collapsed.  Wertz  went 
over  on  an  elbow  with  drooping  head.  He  choked 
a  little,  and  a  dark  stream  flowed  from  his  mouth. 
And  Sigmund,  the  Golden-Haired,  his  throat  a- 
gurgle  with  the  song,  threw  up  his  arms  and 
pitched  across  the  fire. 

The  witch  doctor's  eyes  were  well  blackened,  and 
his  temper  none  of  the  best ;  for  he  quarrelled  with 
the  chief  over  the  possession  of  Wertz's  rifle,  and 
took  more  than  his  share  of  the  part-sack  of  beans. 
Also  he  appropriated  the  bearskin,  and  caused 
grumbling  among  the  tribesmen.  And  finally,  he 
tried  to  kill  Sigmund's  dog,  which  the  girl  had 
given  him,  but  the  dog  ran  away,  while  he  fell  into 
the  shaft  and  dislocated  his  shoulder  on  the  bucket. 
When  the  camp  was  well  looted  they  went  back 


Where  the  Trail  Forks         209 

to  their  own  lodges,  and  there  was  a  great  rejoicing 
among  the  women.  Further,  a  band  of  moose 
strayed  over  the  south  divide  and  fell  before  the 
hunters,  so  the  witch  doctor  attained  yet  greater 
honor,  and  the  people  whispered  among  themselves 
that  he  spoke  in  council  with  the  gods. 
But  later,  when  all  were  gone,  the  shepherd  dog 
crept  back  to  the  deserted  camp,  and  all  the  night 
long  and  a  day  it  wailed  the  dead.  After  that  it 
disappeared,  though  the  years  were  not  many  before 
the  Indian  hunters  noted  a  change  in  the  breed  of 
timber  wolves,  and  there  were  dashes  of  bright 
color  and  variegated  markings  such  as  no  wolf 
bore  before. 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

"  'W   T"OU  —  what  you  call  —  lazy  mans,  you 
\          lazy  mans  would  desire  me  to  haf  for 
wife.     It   is  not  good.     Nevaire,  no, 
nevaire,  will  lazy  mans  my  hoosband  be." 
Thus    Joy    Molineau    spoke    her    mind    to    Jack 
Harrington,  even  as  she  had  spoken  it,,  but   more 
tritely  and  in  his  own  tongue,  to  Louis  Savoy  the 
previous  night. 
"  Listen,  Joy  —  " 

"  No,  no  ;  why  moos'  I  listen  to  lazy  mans  ?  It 
is  vaire  bad,  you  hang  rount,  make  visitation  to 
my  cabin,  and  do  nothing.  How  you  get  grub  for 
the  famille  ?  Why  haf  not  you  the  dust  ?  Odder 
mans  haf  plentee." 

"  But  I  work  hard,  Joy.  Never  a  day  am  I  not 
on  trail  or  up  creek.  Even  now  have  I  just  come 
off.  My  dogs  are  yet  tired.  Other  men  have 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      211 

luck  and  find  plenty  of  gold ;  but  I  —  I  have  no 
luck." 

"  Ah  !  But  when  this  mans  with  the  wife  which 
is  Indian,  this  mans  McCormack,  when  him  dis- 
covaire  the  Klondike,  you  go  not.  Odder  mans 
go ;  odder  mans  now  rich." 

"  You  know  I  was  prospecting  over  on  the  head- 
reaches  of  the  Tanana,"  Harrington  protested, 
u  and  knew  nothing  of  the  Eldorado  or  Bonanza 
until  it  was  too  late." 

"  That   is  deeferent  ;    only  you   are  —  what    you 
call  way  off." 
"What  ?  " 

"Way  off.  In  the  —  yes — in  the  dark.  It  is 
nevaire  too  late.  One  vaire  rich  mine  is  there, 
on  the  creek  which  is  Eldorado.  The  mans  drive 
the  stake  and  him  go  'way.  No  odder  mans 
know  what  of  him  become.  The  mans,  him 
which  drive  the  stake,  is  nevaire  no  more.  Sixty 
days  no  mans  on  that  claim  file  the  papaire. 
Then  odder  mans,  plentee  odder  mans  —  what 
you  call  —  jump  that  claim.  Then  they  race, 


212      A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

O    so  queek,   like   the  wind,  to  file   the  papaire. 

Him  be  vaire  rich.      Him  get  grub  for  famille." 

Harrington  hid  the  major  portion  of  his  interest. 

u  When  's    the    time   up  ?  "    he    asked.      "  What 

claim  is  it  ?  " 

u  So  I  speak  Louis  Savoy  last  night,"  she  continued, 

ignoring  him.     "  Him  I  think  the  winnaire." 

"  Hang  Louis  Savoy!  " 

u  So  Louis    Savoy  speak  in  my  cabin  last  night. 

Him  say,  '  Joy,  I  am  strong  mans.     I   haf  good 

dogs.      I    haf    long    wind.     I    will    be    winnaire. 

Then  you  will   haf   me  for  hoosband  ? '     And  I 

say  to  him,  I  say  — " 

"  What  'd  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say,  '  If  Louis  Savoy  is  winnaire,  then  will  he 

haf  me  for  wife.'  ' 

"  And  if  he  don't  win  ?  " 

"  Then  Louis  Savoy,  him  will  not  be  —  what  you 

call  —  the  father  of  my  children." 

"  And  if  I  win  ?  " 

"  You  winnaire  ?      Ha  !  ha  !     Nevaire  !  " 

Exasperating   as    it   was,  Joy  Molineau's  laughter 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora     2 1 3 

was  pretty  to  hear.     Harrington  did  not  mind   it. 
He  had  long  since  been  broken  in.     Besides,  he 
was  no  exception.     She  had  forced  all  her   lovers 
to    suffer    in    kind.     And    very   enticing   she  was 
just  then,  her  lips  parted,  her  color  heightened  by 
the  sharp  kiss  of  the  frost,  her  eyes  vibrant  with 
the   lure  which  is  the   greatest    of  all  lures  and 
which   may   be    seen    nowhere   save    in    woman's 
eyes.     Her  sled-dogs  clustered  about  her  in  hirsute 
masses,  and  the  leader,  Wolf  Fang,  laid  his  long 
snout  softly  in  her  lap. 
"  If  I  do  win  ?  "   Harrington  pressed. 
She  looked  from  dog  to  lover  and  back  again. 
"What    you   say,  Wolf   Fang?     If   him    strong 
mans  and   file  the  papaire,  shall  we  his  wife  be- 
come ?     Eh  ?     What  you  say  ?  " 
Wolf  Fang   picked   up  his   ears    and  growled   at 
Harrington. 

"  It  is  vaire  cold,"  she  suddenly  added  with  femi- 
nine irrelevance,  rising  to  her  feet  and  straighten- 
ing out  the  team. 
Her  lover  looked  on  stolidly.     She  had  kept  him 


214     A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

guessing  from  the  first  time  they  met,  and  patience 

had  been  joined  unto  his  virtues. 

u  Hi  !   Wolf  Fang  !  "    she   cried,   springing  upon 

the  sled  as  it  leaped  into  sudden  motion.     "  Ai ! 

Ya!   Mush-on!" 

From  the  corner  of  his  eye  Harrington  watched  her 

swinging  down  the  trail  to  Forty  Mile.     Where  the 

road  forked  and  crossed  the  river  to  Fort  Cudahy, 

she  halted  the  dogs  and  turned  about. 

"  O    Mistaire    Lazy    Mans !  "     she    called    back. 

u  Wolf  Fang,  him  say  yes  —  if  you  winnaire  !  " 

But  somehow,  as  such  things  will,  it  leaked  out, 
and  all  Forty  Mile,  which  had  hitherto  specu- 
lated on  Joy  Molineau's  choice  between  her  two 
latest  lovers,  now  hazarded  bets  and  guesses  as  to 
which  would  win  in  the  forthcoming  race.  The 
camp  divided  itself  into  two  factions,  and  every 
effort  was  put  forth  in  order  that  their  respective 
favorites  might  be  the  first  in  at  the  finish.  There 
was  a  scramble  for  the  best  dogs  the  country  could 
afford,  for  dogs,  and  good  ones,  were  essential, 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      2 1 5 

above  all,  to  success.  And  it  meant  much  to  the 
victor.  Besides  the  possession  of  a  wife,  the  like 
of  which  had  yet  to  be  created,  it  stood  for  a  mine 
worth  a  million  at  least. 

That  fall,  when  news  came  down  of  McCormack's 
discovery  on  Bonanza,  all  the  Lower  Country, 
Circle  City  and  Forty  Mile  included,  had  stam- 
peded up  the  Yukon,  —  at  least  all  save  those  who, 
like  Jack  Harrington  and  Louis  Savoy,  were  away 
prospecting  in  the  west.  Moose  pastures  and 
creeks  were  staked  indiscriminately  and  promiscu- 
ously ;  and  incidentally,  one  of  the  unlikeliest  of 
creeks,  Eldorado.  Olaf  Nelson  laid  claim  to 
five  hundred  of  its  linear  feet,  duly  posted  his 
notice,  and  as  duly  disappeared.  At  that  time 
the  nearest  recording  office  was  in  the  police  bar- 
racks at  Fort  Cudahy,  just  across  the  river  from 
Forty  Mile 5  but  when  it  became  bruited  abroad 
that  Eldorado  Creek  was  a  treasure-house,  it  was 
quickly  discovered  that  Olaf  Nelson  had  failed  to 
make  the  down-Yukon  trip  to  file  upon  his  pro- 
perty. Men  cast  hungry  eyes  upon  the  owner- 


2 1 6     A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

less  claim,  where  they  knew  a  thousand-thousand 
dollars  waited  but  shovel  and  sluice-box.  Yet  they 
dared  not  touch  it ;  for  there  was  a  law  which 
permitted  sixty  days  to  lapse  between  the  staking 
and  the  filing,  during  which  time  a  claim  was 
immune.  The  whole  country  knew  of  Olaf 
Nelson's  disappearance,  and  scores  of  men  made 
preparation  for  the  jumping  and  for  the  conse- 
quent race  to  Fort  Cudahy. 

But  competition  at  Forty  Mile  was  limited.  With 
the  camp  devoting  its  energies  to  the  equipping 
either  of  Jack  Harrington  or  Louis  Savoy,  no  man 
was  unwise  enough  to  enter  the  contest  single- 
handed.  It  was  a  stretch  of  a  hundred  miles  to 
the  Recorder's  office,  and  it  was  planned  that  the 
two  favorites  should  have  four  relays  of  dogs 
stationed  along  the  trail.  Naturally,  the  last  relay 
was  to  be  the  crucial  one,  and  for  these  twenty- 
five  miles  their  respective  partisans  strove  to  obtain 
the  strongest  possible  animals.  So  bitter  did  the 
factions  wax,  and  so  high  did  they  bid,  that  dogs 
brought  stiffer  prices  than  ever  before  in  the  annals 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      217 

of  the  country.  And,  as  it  chanced,  this  scramble 
for  dogs  turned  the  public  eye  still  more  search- 
ingly  upon  Joy  Molineau.  Not  only  was  she  the 
cause  of  it  all,  but  she  possessed  the  finest  sled-dog 
from  Chilkoot  to  Bering  Sea.  As  wheel  or  leader, 
Wolf  Fang  had  no  equal.  The  man  whose  sled 
he  led  down  the  last  stretch  was  bound  to  win. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  But  the  com- 
munity had  an  innate  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things, 
and  not  once  was  Joy  vexed  by  overtures  for  his 
use.  And  the  factions  drew  consolation  from  the 
fact  that  if  one  man  did  not  profit  by  him,  neither 
should  the  other. 

However,  since  man,  in  the  individual  or  in  the 
aggregate,  has  been  so  fashioned  that  he  goes 
through  life  blissfully  obtuse  to  the  deeper  subtle- 
ties of  his  womenkind,  so  the  men  of  Forty  Mile 
failed  to  divine  the  inner  deviltry  of  Joy  Molineau. 
They  confessed,  afterward,  that  they  had  failed  to 
appreciate  this  dark-eyed  daughter  of  the  aurora, 
whose  father  had  traded  furs  in  the  country  before 
ever  they  dreamed  of  invading  it,  and  who  had 


2 1 8  A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 
herself  first  opened  eyes  on  the  scintillant  northern 
lights.  Nay,  accident  of  birth  had  not  rendered  her 
less  the  woman,  nor  had  it  limited  her  woman's 
understanding  of  men.  They  knew  she  played 
with  them,  but  they  did  not  know  the  wisdom  of 
her  play,  its  deepness  and  its  deftness.  They 
failed  to  see  more  than  the  exposed  card,  so  that 
to  the  very  last  Forty  Mile  was  in  a  state  of  pleas- 
ant obfuscation,  and  it  was  not  until  she  cast  her 
final  trump  that  it  came  to  reckon  up  the  score. 
Early  in  the  week  the  camp  turned  out  to  start 
Jack  Harrington  and  Louis  Savoy  on  their  way. 
They  had  taken  a  shrewd  margin  of  time,  for  it 
was  their  wish  to  arrive  at  Olaf  Nelson's  claim 
some  days  previous  to  the  expiration  of  its  immu- 
nity, that  they  might  rest  themselves,  and  their 
dogs  be  fresh  for  the  first  relay.  On  the  way  up 
they  found  the  men  of  Dawson  already  stationing 
spare  dog  teams  along  the  trail,  and  it  was  mani- 
fest that  little  expense  had  been  spared  in  view  of 
the  millions  at  stake. 
A  couple  of  days  after  the  departure  of  their  cham- 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      2 1 9 

pions,  Forty  Mile  began  sending  up  their  relays,  — 
first  to  the  seventy-five  station,  then  to  the  fifty, 
and  last  to  the  twenty-five.  The  teams  for  the 
last  stretch  were  magnificent,  and  so  equally 
matched  that  the  camp  discussed  their  relative 
merits  for  a  full  hour  at  fifty  below,  before  they 
were  permitted  to  pull  out.  At  the  last  moment 
Joy  Molineau  dashed  in  among  them  on  her  sled. 
She  drew  Lon  McFane,  who  had  charge  of  Har- 
rington's team,  to  one  side,  and  hardly  had  the 
first  words  left  her  lips  when  it  was  noticed  that 
his  lower  jaw  dropped  with  a  celerity  and  emphasis 
suggestive  of  great  things.  He  unhitched  Wolf 
Fang  from  her  sled,  put  him  at  the  head  of  Har- 
rington's team,  and  mushed  the  string  of  animals 
into  the  Yukon  trail. 

"  Poor  Louis  Savoy  !  "  men  said  ;  but  Joy  Moli- 
neau flashed  her  black  eyes  defiantly  and  drove 
back  to  her  father's  cabin. 

Midnight  drew  near  on  Olaf  Nelson's  claim.  A 
few  hundred  fur-clad  men  had  preferred  sixty 


220     A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

below  and  the  jumping,  to  the  inducements  of 
warm  cabins  and  comfortable  bunks.  Several 
score  of  them  had  their  notices  prepared  for  post- 
ing and  their  dogs  at  hand.  A  bunch  of  Captain 
Constantine's  mounted  police  had  been  ordered 
on  duty  that  fair  play  might  rule.  The  command 
had  gone  forth  that  no  man  should  place  a  stake 
till  the  last  second  of  the  day  had  ticked  itself  into 
the  past.  In  the  northland  such  commands  are 
equal  to  Jehovah's  in  the  matter  of  potency ;  the 
dum-dum  as  rapid  and  effective  as  the  thunderbolt. 
It  was  clear  and  cold.  The  aurora  borealis  painted 
palpitating  color  revels  on  the  sky.  Rosy  waves 
of  cold  brilliancy  swept  across  the  zenith,  while 
great  coruscating  bars  of  greenish  white  blotted 
out  the  stars,  or  a  Titan's  hand  reared  mighty 
arches  above  the  Pole.  And  at  this  mighty  dis- 
play the  wolf-dogs  howled  as  had  their  ancestors 
of  old  time. 

A  bearskin-coated  policeman  stepped  prominently 
to  the  fore,  watch  in  hand.  Men  hurried  among 
the  dogs,  rousing  them  to  their  feet,  untangling 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      221 

their  traces,  straightening  them  out.  The  entries 
came  to  the  mark,  firmly  gripping  stakes  and 
notices.  They  had  gone  over  the  boundaries  of 
the  claim  so  often  that  they  could  now  have  done 
it  blindfolded.  The  policeman  raised  his  hand. 
Casting  off  their  superfluous  furs  and  blankets, 
and  with  a  final  cinching  of  belts,  they  came  to 
attention. 
"  Time !  " 

Sixty  pairs  of  hands  unmitted ;  as  many  pairs  of 
moccasins  gripped  hard  upon  the  snow. 
"  Go !  " 

They  shot  across  the  wide  expanse,  round  the  four 
sides,  sticking  notices  at  every  corner,  and  down 
the  middle  where  the  two  centre  stakes  were  to 
be  planted.  Then  they  sprang  for  the  sleds  on 
the  frozen  bed  of  the  creek.  An  anarchy  of  sound 
and  motion  broke  out.  Sled  collided  with  sled, 
and  dog-team  fastened  upon  dog-team  with  brist- 
ling manes  and  screaming  fangs.  The  narrow 
creek  was  glutted  with  the  struggling  mass. 
Lashes  and  butts  of  dog-whips  were  distributed 


222      A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

impartially  among  men  and  brutes.  And  to  make 
it  of  greater  moment,  each  participant  had  a  bunch 
of  comrades  intent  on  breaking  him  out  of  jam. 
But  one  by  one,  and  by  sheer  strength,  the  sleds 
crept  out  and  shot  from  sight  in  the  darkness  of 
the  overhanging  banks. 

Jack  Harrington  had  anticipated  this  crush  and 
waited  by  his  sled  until  it  untangled.  Louis 
Savoy,  aware  of  his  rival's  greater  wisdom  in  the 
matter  of  dog-driving,  had  followed  his  lead  and 
also  waited.  The  rout  had  passed  beyond  ear-shot 
when  they  took  the  trail,  and  it  was  not  till  they 
had  travelled  the  ten  miles  or  so  down  to  Bonanza 
that  they  came  upon  it,  speeding  along  in  single 
file,  but  well  bunched.  There  was  little  noise,  and 
less  chance  of  one  passing  another  at  that  stage. 
The  sleds,  from  runner  to  runner,  measured  six- 
teen inches,  the  trail  eighteen;  but  the  trail, 
packed  down  fully  a  foot  by  the  traffic,  was  like  a 
gutter.  On  either  side  spread  the  blanket  of  soft 
snow  crystals.  If  a  man  turned  into  this  in  an 
endeavor  to  pass,  his  dogs  would  wallow  perforce 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      223 

to  their  bellies  and  slow  down  to  a  snail's  pace.  So 
the  men  lay  close  to  their  leaping  sleds  and  waited. 
No  alteration  in  position  occurred  down  the  fifteen 
miles  of  Bonanza  and  Klondike  to  Dawson,  where 
the  Yukon  was  encountered.  Here  the  first  relays 
waited.  But  here,  intent  to  kill  their  first  teams, 
if  necessary,  Harrington  and  Savoy  had  had  their 
fresh  teams  placed  a  couple  of  miles  beyond  those 
of  the  others.  In  the  confusion  of  changing  sleds 
they  passed  full  half  the  bunch.  Perhaps  thirty 
men  were  still  leading  them  when  they  shot  on  to 
the  broad  breast  of  the  Yukon.  Here  was  the  tug. 
When  the  river  froze  in  the  fall,  a  mile  of  open 
water  had  been  left  between  two  mighty  jams. 
This  had  but  recently  crusted,  the  current  being 
swift,  and  now  it  was  as  level,  hard,  and  slippery  as 
a  dance  floor.  The  instant  they  struck  this  glare 
ice  Harrington  came  to  his  knees,  holding  precari- 
ously on  with  one  hand,  his  whip  singing  fiercely 
among  his  dogs  and  fearsome  abjurations  hurtling 
about  their  ears.  The  teams  spread  out  on  the 
smooth  surface,  each  straining  to  the  uttermost.  But 


224     A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

few  men  in  the  North  could  lift  their  dogs  as  did 
Jack  Harrington.  At  once  he  began  to  pull  ahead, 
and  Louis  Savoy,  taking  the  pace,  hung  on  desper- 
ately, his  leaders  running  even  with  the  tail  of  his 
rival's  sled. 

Midway  on  the  glassy  stretch  their  relays  shot  out 
from  the  bank.  But  Harrington  did  not  slacken. 
Watching  his  chance  when  the  new  sled  swung 
in  close,  he  leaped  across,  shouting  as  he  did  so 
and  jumping  up  the  pace  of  his  fresh  dogs.  The 
other  driver  fell  off  somehow.  Savoy  did  likewise 
with  his  relay,  and  the  abandoned  teams,  swerving 
to  right  and  left,  collided  with  the  others  and  piled 
the  ice  with  confusion.  Harrington  cut  out  the 
pace ;  Savoy  hung  on.  As  they  neared  the  end 
of  the  glare  ice,  they  swept  abreast  of  the  leading 
sled.  When  they  shot  into  the  narrow  trail  be- 
tween the  soft  snowbanks,  they  led  the  race ;  and 
Dawson,  watching  by  the  light  of  the  aurora, 
swore  that  it  was  neatly  done. 
When  the  frost  grows  lusty  at  sixty  below,  men 
cannot  long  remain  without  fire  or  excessive  exer- 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      225 
cise,  and  live.     So  Harrington  and  Savoy  now  fell 
to  the  ancient  custom  of  "  ride  and  run."     Leap- 
ing from  their  sleds,  tow-thongs  in  hand,  they  ran 
behind  till  the  blood  resumed  its  wonted  channels 
and  expelled  the  frost,  then  back  to  the  sleds  till 
the   heat    again   ebbed    away.     Thus,   riding   and 
running,  they  covered  the  second  and  third  relays. 
Several  times,  on   smooth   ice,  Savoy  spurted  his 
dogs,  and   as   often   failed  to   gain    past.     Strung 
along  for  five  miles  in  the  rear,  the  remainder  of 
the  race  strove  to  overtake  them,  but  vainly,  for  to 
Louis  Savoy  alone  was  the  glory  given  of  keep- 
ing Jack  Harrington's  killing  pace. 
As  they  swung  into  the   seventy-five-mile  station, 
Lon  McFane  dashed  alongside ;  Wolf  Fang  in  the 
lead  caught  Harrington's  eye,  and  he  knew  that  the 
race  was  his.     No  team  in  the  North  could  pass 
him  on  those  last  twenty-five  miles.     And  when 
Savoy  saw  Wolf  Fang  heading  his  rival's  team,  he 
knew   that   he   was   out   of  the   running,   and   he 
cursed  softly    to    himself,  in   the  way   woman    is 
most  frequently  cursed.     But  he  still  clung  to  the 


226     A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

other's  smoking  trail,  gambling  on  chance  to  the 
last.  And  as  they  churned  along,  the  day  break- 
ing in  the  southeast,  they  marvelled  in  joy  and 
sorrow  at  that  which  Joy  Molineau  had  done. 

Forty  Mile  had  early  crawled  out  of  its  sleeping 
furs  and  congregated  near  the  edge  of  the  trail. 
From  this  point  it  could  view  the  up- Yukon 
course  to  its  first  bend  several  miles  away.  Here 
it  could  also  see  across  the  river  to  the  finish  at 
Fort  Cudahy,  where  the  Gold  Recorder  nervously 
awaited.  Joy  Molineau  had  taken  her  position 
several  rods  back  from  the  trail,  and  under  the 
circumstances,  the  rest  of  Forty  Mile  forbore 
interposing  itself.  So  the  space  was  clear  be- 
tween her  and  the  slender  line  of  the  course. 
Fires  had  been  built,  and  around  these  men 
wagered  dust  and  dogs,  the  long  odds  on  Wolf 
Fang. 

u  Here  they  come  ! "  shrilled  an  Indian  boy  from 
the  top  of  a  pine. 
Up  the  Yukon  a  black  speck  appeared  against  the 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      227 

snow,  closely   followed   by   a   second.       As  these 
grew  larger,  more  black  specks  manifested  them- 
selves,   but    at  a    goodly    distance    to    the    rear. 
Gradually  they  resolved  themselves  into  dogs  and 
sleds,  and  men  lying  flat  upon  them. 
"  Wolf  Fang  leads,"  a  lieutenant  of  police  whis- 
pered to  Joy.      She  smiled  her  interest  back. 
"  Ten   to   one   on    Harrington ! "    cried    a    Birch 
Creek  King,  dragging  out  his  sack. 
"  The  Queen,  her  pay  you  not  mooch  ?  "  queried 

J°y- 

The  lieutenant  shook  his  head. 

"You  have   some   dust,   ah,   how   mooch?",  she 

continued. 

He  exposed  his  sack.     She  gauged  it  with  a  rapid 

eye. 

"Mebbe — say — two  hundred,  eh  ?     Good.     Now  I 

give  —  what  you  call  —  the  tip.     Covaire  the  bet." 

Joy  smiled  inscrutably.     The  lieutenant  pondered. 

He  glanced  up  the  trail.     The  two  men  had  risen 

to  their  knees  and  were  lashing  their  dogs  furiously, 

Harrington  in  the  lead. 


228      A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora 

u  Ten  to  one  on  Harrington  !  "  bawled  the  Birch 
Creek  King,  flourishing  his  sack  in  the  lieutenant's 
face. 

"  Covaire  the  bet,"  Joy  prompted. 
He  obeyed,  shrugging  his   shoulders  in  token  that 
he  yielded,  not  to  the  dictate  of  his  reason,  but  to 
her  charm.     Joy  nodded  to  reassure  him. 
All  noise  ceased.     Men  paused  in  the  placing  of 
bets. 

Yawing  and  reeling  and  plunging,  like  luggers 
before  the  wind,  the  sleds  swept  wildly  upon  them. 
Though  he  still  kept  his  leader  up  to  the  tail  of 
Harrington's  sled,  Louis  Savoy's  face  was  without 
hope.  Harrington's  mouth  was  set.  He  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left.  His  dogs 
were  leaping  in  perfect  rhythm,  firm-footed,  close 
to  the  trail,  and  Wolf  Fang,  head  low  and  un- 
seeing, whining  softly,  was  leading  his  comrades 
magnificently. 

Forty  Mile  stood  breathless.  Not  a  sound,  save 
the  roar  of  the  runners  and  the  voice  of  the 
whips. 


A  Daughter  of  the  Aurora      229 

Then  the  clear  voice  of  Joy  Molineau  rose  on  the 
air.  «  Ai  !  Ya  !  Wolf  Fang  !  Wolf  Fang  !  " 
Wolf  Fang  heard.  He  left  the  trail  sharply,  head- 
ing directly  for  his  mistress.  The  team  dashed 
after  him,  and  the  sled  poised  an  instant  on  a 
single  runner,  then  shot  Harrington  into  the  snow. 
Savoy  was  by  like  a  flash.  Harrington  pulled  to 
his  feet  and  watched  him  skimming  across  the 
river  to  the  Gold  Recorder's.  He  could  not  help 
hearing  what  was  said. 

"  Ah,  him  do  vaire  well,"  Joy  Molineau  was  ex- 
plaining to  the  lieutenant.  "  Him  — what  you 
call  —  set  the  pace.  Yes,  him  set  the  pace  vaire 
well." 


At  the  Rainbow's  End 


IT  was  for  two  reasons  that  Montana  Kid 
discarded  his  "  chaps "  and  Mexican  spurs, 
and  shook  the  dust  of  the  Idaho  ranges  from 
his  feet.  In  the  first  place,  the  encroachments  of 
a  steady,  sober,  and  sternly  moral  civilization  had 
destroyed  the  primeval  status  of  the  western  cattle 
ranges,  and  refined  society  turned  the  cold  eye  of 
disfavor  upon  him  and  his  ilk.  In  the  second 
place,  in  one  of  its  cyclopean  moments  the  race 
had  arisen  and  shoved  back  its  frontier  several 
thousand  miles.  Thus,  with  unconscious  fore- 
sight, did  mature  society  make  room  for  its  ado- 
lescent members.  True,  the  new  territory  was 
mostly  barren ;  but  its  several  hundred  thousand 
square  miles  of  frigidity  at  least  gave  breathing 


At  the  Rainbow's  End  231 
space  to  those  who  else  would  have  suffocated  at 
home. 

Montana  Kid  was  such  a  one.  Heading  for  the 
sea-coast,  with  a  haste  several  sheriff's  posses 
might  possibly  have  explained,  and  with  more 
nerve  than  coin  of  the  realm,  he  succeeded  in 
shipping  from  a  Puget  Sound  port,  and  managed  to 
survive  the  contingent  miseries  of  steerage  sea- 
sickness and  steerage  grub.  He  was  rather  sal- 
low and  drawn,  but  still  his  own  indomitable  self, 
when  he  landed  on  the  Dyea  beach  one  day  in  the 
spring  of  the  year.  Between  the  cost  of  dogs, 
grub,  and  outfits,  and  the  customs  exactions  of  the 
two  clashing  governments,  it  speedily  penetrated  to 
his  understanding  that  the  Northland  was  any- 
thing save  a  poor  man's  Mecca.  So  he  cast  about 
him  in  search  of  quick  harvests.  Between  the 
beach  and  the  passes  were  scattered  many  thou- 
sands of  passionate  pilgrims.  These  pilgrims 
Montana  Kid  proceeded  to  farm.  At  first  he 
dealt  faro  in  a  pine-board  gambling  shack;  but 
disagreeable  necessity  forced  him  tp  drop  a  sudden 


232          At  the  Rainbow's  End 

period  into  a  man's  life,  and  to  move  on  up  trail. 
Then  he  effected  a  corner  in  horseshoe  nails,  and 
they  circulated  at  par  with  legal  tender,  four  to  the 
dollar,  till  an  unexpected  consignment  of  a  hun- 
dred barrels  or  so  broke  the  market  and  forced 
him  to  disgorge  his  stock  at  a  loss.  After  that  he 
located  at  Sheep  Camp,  organized  the  professional 
packers,  and  jumped  the  freight  ten  cents  a  pound 
in  a  single  day.  In  token  of  their  gratitude,  the 
packers  patronized  his  faro  and  roulette  layouts 
and  were  mulcted  cheerfully  of  their  earnings. 
But  his  commercialism  was  of  too  lusty  a  growth 
to  be  long  endured ;  so  they  rushed  him  one  night, 
burned  his  shanty,  divided  the  bank,  and  headed  him 
up  the  trail  with  empty  pockets. 
Ill-luck  was  his  running  mate.  He  engaged 
with  responsible  parties  to  run  whisky  across  the 
line  by  way  of  precarious  and  unknown  trails,  lost 
his  Indian  guides,  and  had  the  very  first  outfit  con- 
fiscated by  the  Mounted  Police.  Numerous  other 
misfortunes  tended  to  make  him  bitter  of  heart 
and  wanton  of  action,  and  he  celebrated  his  arrival 


At  the  Rainbow's  End  233 
at  Lake  Bennett  by  terrorizing  the  camp  for  twenty 
straight  hours.  Then  a  miners'  meeting  took 
him  in  hand,  and  commanded  him  to  make  him- 
self scarce.  He  had  a  wholesome  respect  for 
such  assemblages,  and  he  obeyed  in  such  haste 
that  he  inadvertently  removed  himself  at  the  tail- 
end  of  another  man's  dog  team.  This  was  equiv- 
alent to  horse-stealing  in  a  more  mellow  clime,  so 
he  hit  only  the  high  places  across  Bennett  and 
down  Tagish,  and  made  his  first  camp  a  full  hun- 
dred miles  to  the  north. 

Now  it  happened  that  the  break  of  spring  was  at 
hand,  and  many  of  the  principal  citizens  of  Daw- 
son  were  travelling  south  on  the  last  ice.  These 
he  met  and  talked  with,  noted  their  names  and 
possessions,  and  passed  on.  He  had  a  good 
memory,  also  a  fair  imagination  ;  nor  was  veracity 
one  of  his  virtues. 


234        At  the  Rainbow's  End 
II 

Dawson,  always  eager  for  news,  beheld  Montana 
Kid's  sled  heading  down  the  Yukon,  and  went  out 
on  the  ice  to  meet  him.  No,  he  had  n't  any 
newspapers ;  did  n't  know  whether  Durrant  was 
hanged  yet,  nor  who  had  won  the  Thanksgiving 
game  ;  had  n't  heard  whether  the  United  States  and 
Spain  had  gone  to  fighting ;  did  n't  know  who 
Dreyfus  was ;  but  O'Brien  ?  Had  n't  they  heard  ? 
O'Brien,  why,  he  was  drowned  in  the  White 
Horse  ;  Sitka  Charley  the  only  one  of  the  party 
who  escaped.  Joe  Ladue  ?  Both  legs  frozen  and 
amputated  at  the  Five  Fingers.  And  Jack  Dai- 
ton  ?  Blown  up  on  the  "  Sea  Lion  "  with  all  hands. 
And  Bettles  ?  Wrecked  on  the  "  Carthagina,"  in 
Seymour  Narrows,  —  twenty  survivors  out  of  three 
hundred.  And  Swiftwater  Bill  ?  Gone  through 
the  rotten  ice  of  Lake  LeBarge  with  six  female 
members  of  the  opera  troupe  he  was  convoying. 
Governor  Walsh  ?  Lost  with  all  hands  and  eight 
sleds  on  the  Thirty  Mile.  Devereaux  ?  Who 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         235 

was    Devereaux  ?       Oh,    the    courier !     Shot    by 
Indians  on  Lake  Marsh. 

So  it  went.  The  word  was  passed  along. 
Men  shouldered  in  to  ask  after  friends  and  part- 
ners, and  in  turn  were  shouldered  out,  too  stunned 
for  blasphemy.  By  the  time  Montana  Kid  gained 
the  bank  he  was  surrounded  by  several  hundred 
fur-clad  miners.  When  he  passed  the  Barracks 
he  was  the  centre  of  a  procession.  At  the  Opera 
House  he  was  the  nucleus  of  an  excited  mob,  each 
member  struggling  for  a  chance  to  ask  after  some 
absent  comrade.  On  every  side  he  was  being  in- 
vited to  drink.  Never  before  had  the  Klondike 
thus  opened  its  arms  to  a  che-cha-qua.  All  Daw- 
son  was  humming.  Such  a  series  of  catastrophes 
had  never  occurred  in  its  history.  Every  man  of 
note  who  had  gone  south  in  the  spring  had  been 
wiped  out.  The  cabins  vomited  forth  their  oc- 
cupants. Wild-eyed  men  hurried  down  from  the 
creeks  and  gulches  to  seek  out  this  man  who  had 
told  a  tale  of  such  disaster.  The  Russian  half- 
breed  wife  of  Bettles  sought  the  fireplace,  incpn- 


236         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

solable,  and  rocked  back  and  forth,  and  ever  and 
anon  flung  white  wood-ashes  upon  her  raven  hair. 
The  flag  at  the  Barracks  flopped  dismally  at  half- 
mast.  Dawson  mourned  its  dead. 
Why  Montana  Kid  did  this  thing  no  man  may 
know.  Nor  beyond  the  fact  that  the  truth  was 
not  in  him,  can  explanation  be  hazarded.  But  for 
five  whole  days  he  plunged  the  land  in  wailing  and 
sorrow,  and  for  five  whole  days  he  was  the  only  man 
in  the  Klondike.  The  country  gave  him  its  best 
of  bed  and  board.  The  saloons  granted  him  the 
freedom  of  their  bars.  Men  sought  him  continu- 
ously. The  high  officials  bowed  down  to  him  for 
further  information,  and  he  was  feasted  at  the  Bar- 
racks by  Constantine  and  his  brother  officers.  And 
then,  one  day,  Devereaux,  the  government  courier, 
halted  his  tired  dogs  before  the  gold  commissioner's 
office.  Dead  ?  Who  said  so  ?  Give  him  a  moose 
steak  and  he  'd  show  them  how  dead  he  was.  Why, 
Governor  Walsh  was  in  camp  on  the  Little  Salmon, 
and  O'Brien  coming  in  on  the  first  water.  Dead  ? 
Give  him  a  moose  steak  and  he  'd  show  them. 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         237 

And  forthwith  Dawson  hummed.  The  Barracks' 
flag  rose  to  the  masthead,  and  Bettles'  wife  washed 
herself  and  put  on  clean  raiment.  The  com- 
munity subtly  signified  its  desire  that  Montana 
Kid  obliterate  himself  from  the  landscape.  And 
Montana  Kid  obliterated ;  as  usual,  at  the  tail- 
end  of  some  one  else's  dog  team.  Dawson  re- 
joiced when  he  headed  down  the  Yukon,  and 
wished  him  godspeed  to  the  ultimate  destination 
of  the  case-hardened  sinner.  After  that  the 
owner  of  the  dogs  bestirred  himself,  made  com- 
plaint to  Constantine,  and  from  him  received  the 
loan  of  a  policeman. 

in 

With  Circle  City  in  prospect  and  the  last  ice 
crumbling  under  his  runners,  Montana  Kid  took 
advantage  of  the  lengthening  days  and  travelled  his 
dogs  late  and  early.  Further,  he  had  but  little 
doubt  that  the  owner  of  the  dogs  in  question 
had  taken  his  trail,  and  he  wished  to  make  Amer- 
ican territory  before  the  river  broke.  But  by  the 


238         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

afternoon  of  the  third  day  it  became  evident  that 
he  had  lost  in  his  race  with  spring.  The  Yukon 
was  growling  and  straining  at  its  fetters.  Long 
detours  became  necessary,  for  the  trail  had  begun 
to  fall  through  into  the  swift  current  beneath, 
while  the  ice,  in  constant  unrest,  was  thundering 
apart  in  great  gaping  fissures.  Through  these 
and  through  countless  airholes,  the  water  began 
to  sweep  across  the  surface  of  the  ice,  and  by  the 
time  he  pulled  into  a  woodchopper's  cabin  on  the 
point  of  an  island,  the  dogs  were  being  rushed  off 
their  feet  and  were  swimming  more  often  than 
not.  He  was  greeted  sourly  by  the  two  residents, 
but  he  unharnessed  and  proceeded  to  cook  up. 
Donald  and  Davy  were  fair  specimens  of  frontier 
inefficients.  Canadian-born,  city-bred  Scots,  in  a 
foolish  moment  they  had  resigned  their  counting- 
house  desks,  drawn  upon  their  savings,  and  gone 
Klondiking.  And  now  they  were  feeling  the 
rough  edge  of  the  country.  Grubless,  spiritless, 
with  a  lust  for  home  in  their  hearts,  they  had  been 
staked  by  the  P.  C.  Company  to  cut  wood  for 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         239 

its  steamers,  with  the  promise  at  the  end  of  a  pas- 
sage home.  Disregarding  the  possibilities  of  the 
ice-run,  they  had  fittingly  demonstrated  their  in- 
efficiency by  their  choice  of  the  island  on  which 
they  located.  Montana  Kid,  though  possessing 
little  knowledge  of  the  break-up  of  a  great  river, 
looked  about  him  dubiously,  and  cast  yearning 
glances  at  the  distant  bank  where  the  towering 
bluffs  promised  immunity  from  all  the  ice  of  the 
Northland. 

After  feeding  himself  and  dogs,  he  lighted  his  pipe 
and  strolled  out  to  get  a  better  idea  of  the  situa- 
tion. The  island,  like  all  its  river  brethren,  stood 
higher  at  the  upper  end,  and  it  was  here  that  Donald 
and  Davy  had  built  their  cabin  and  piled  many  cords 
of  wood.  The  far  shore  was  a  full  mile  away,  while 
between  the  island  and  the  near  shore  lay  a  back- 
channel  perhaps  a  hundred  yards  across.  At  first 
sight  of  this,  Montana  Kid  was  tempted  to  take  his 
dogs  and  escape  to  the  mainland,  but  on  closer  in- 
spection he  discovered  a  rapid  current  flooding  on 
top.  Below,  the  river  twisted  sharply  to  the  west, 


240         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

and  in  this  turn  its  breast  was  studded  by  a  maze 
of  tiny  islands. 

"That's    where    she'll    jam,"    he    remarked    to 
himself. 

Half  a  dozen  sleds,  evidently  bound  up-stream  to 
Dawson,  were  splashing  through  the  chill  water  to 
the  tail  of  the  island.  Travel  on  the  river  was 
passing  from  the  precarious  to  the  impossible,  and 
it  was  nip  and  tuck  with  them  till  they  gained  the 
island  and  came  up  the  path  of  the  wood-choppers 
toward  the  cabin.  One  of  them,  snow-blind, 
towed  helplessly  at  the  rear  of  a  sled.  Husky 
young  fellows  they  were,  rough-garmented  and 
trail-worn,  yet  Montana  Kid  had  met  the  breed  be- 
fore and  knew  at  once  that  it  was  not  his  kind. 
"  Hello  !  How  Js  things  up  Dawson-way  ? " 
queried  the  foremost,  passing  his  eye  over  Donald 
and  Davy  and  settling  it  upon  the  Kid. 
A  first  meeting  in  the  wilderness  is  not  charac- 
terized by  formality.  The  talk  quickly  became 
general,  and  the  news  of  the  Upper  and  Lower 
Countries  was  swapped  equitably  back  and  forth. 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         241 

But  the  little  the  new-comers  had  was  soon  over 
with,  for  they  had  wintered  at  Minook,  a  thou- 
sand miles  below,  where  nothing  was  doing. 
Montana  Kid,  however,  was  fresh  from  Salt 
Water,  and  they  annexed  him  while  they  pitched 
camp,  swamping  him  with  questions  concerning 
the  outside,  from  which  they  had  been  cut  off  for 
a  twelvemonth. 

A  shrieking  split,  suddenly  lifting  itself  above  the 
general  uproar  on  the  river,  drew  everybody  to  the 
bank.  The  surface  water  had  increased  in  depth, 
and  the  ice,  assailed  from  above  and  below,  was 
struggling  to  tear  itself  from  the  grip  of  the  shores. 
Fissures  reverberated  into  life  before  their  eyes, 
and  the  air  was  filled  with  multitudinous  crackling, 
crisp  and  sharp,  like  the  sound  that  goes  up  on  a 
clear  day  from  the  firing  line. 

From  up  the  river  two  men  were  racing  a  dog  team 
toward  them  on  an  uncovered  stretch  of  ice.  But 
even  as  they  looked,  the  pair  struck  the  water  and 
began  to  flounder  through.  Behind,  where  their 
feet  had  sped  the  moment  before,  the  ice  broke  up 
16 


242         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

and  turned  turtle.  Through  this  opening  the  river 
rushed  out  upon  them  to  their  waists,  burying  the 
sled  and  swinging  the  dogs  off  at  right  angles  in 
a  drowning  tangle.  But  the  men  stopped  their 
flight  to  give  the  animals  a  righting  chance,  and 
they  groped  hurriedly  in  the  cold  confusion,  slash- 
ing at  the  detaining  traces  with  their  sheath-knives. 
Then  they  fought  their  way  to  the  bank  through 
swirling  water  and  grinding  ice,  where,  foremost 
in  leaping  to  the  rescue  among  the  jarring  frag- 
ments, was  the  Kid. 

"  Why,  blime  me,  if  it  ain't  Montana  Kid  !  " 
exclaimed  one  of  the  men  whom  the  Kid  was  just 
placing  upon  his  feet  at  the  top  of  the  bank.  He 
wore  the  scarlet  tunic  of  the  Mounted  Police  and 
jocularly  raised  his  right  hand  in  salute. 

"  Got  a  warrant  for  you,  Kid,"  he  continued, 
drawing  a  bedraggled  paper  from  his  breast  pocket, 
u  an'  I  'ope  as  you  '11  come  along  peaceable." 
Montana  Kid  looked  at  the  chaotic  river  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  policeman,  follow- 
ing his  glance,  smiled. 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         243 

"  Where  are  the  dogs  ?  "  his  companion  asked. 
"  Gentlemen,"    interrupted    the    policeman,    "  this 
'ere   mate  o'   mine  is  Jack  Sutherland,  owner  of 
Twenty-Two  Eldorado  —  " 

"  Not .  Sutherland  of  '92?"  broke  in  the  snow- 
blinded  Minook  man,  groping  feebly  toward 
him. 

"The  same."  Sutherland  gripped  his  hand. 
"And  you?" 

"Oh,  I'm  after  your  time,  but  I  remember  you 
in  my  freshman  year, — you  were  doing  P.  G. 
work  then.  Boys,"  he  called,  turning  half  about, 
"  this  is  Sutherland,  Jack  Sutherland,  erstwhile  full- 
back on  the  'Varsity.  Come  up,  you  gold-chasers, 
and  fall  upon  him  !  Sutherland,  this  is  Greenwich, 
—  played  quarter  two  seasons  back." 
"  Yes,  I  read  of  the  game,"  Sutherland  said,  shak- 
ing hands.  "  And  I  remember  that  big  run  of 
yours  for  the  first  touchdown." 

Greenwich  flushed  darkly  under  his  tanned  skin 
and  awkwardly  made  room  for  another. 
"  And  here  's  Matthews,  —  Berkeley  man.     And 


244         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

we've   got   some  Eastern  cracks  knocking  about, 

too.     Come  up,  you  Princeton  men  !     Come  up  ! 

This  is  Sutherland,  Jack  Sutherland  !  " 

Then  they  fell  upon  him  heavily,  carried  him  into 

camp,    and    supplied    him    with    dry    clothes    and 

numerous  mugs  of  black  tea. 

Donald  and  Davy,  overlooked,  had  retired  to  their 

nightly    game    of   crib.     Montana    Kid    followed 

them  with  the  policeman. 

u  Here,  get  into  some  dry  togs,"  he  said,  pulling 

them  from  out   his    scanty    kit.     u  Guess    you  '11 

have  to  bunk  with  me,  too." 

u  Well,  I  say,  you  're  a  good  'un,"  the  policeman 

remarked  as  he  pulled  on  the  other  man's  socks. 

"  Sorry   I  've  got  to  take  you   back   to   Dawson, 

but  I  only  'ope  they  won't  be  'ard  on  you." 

"  Not    so    fast."       The    Kid    smiled    curiously. 

"  We   ain't   under  way   yet.     When    I    go    I  'm 

going  down   river,   and    I  guess  the  chances  are 

you  '11  go  along." 

"  Not  if  I  know  myself —  " 

"  Come    on   outside,    and    I  '11    show    you,    then. 


At  the  Rainbow's  End  245 
These  damn  fools,"  thrusting  a  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  two  Scots,  u  played  smash  when 
they  located  here.  Fill  your  pipe,  first  —  this 
is  pretty  good  plug  —  and  enjoy  yourself  while 
you  can.  You  have  n't  many  smokes  before 
you." 

The  policeman  went  with  him  wonderingly, 
while  Donald  and  Davy  dropped  their  cards 
and  followed.  The  Minook  men  noticed  Mon- 
tana Kid  pointing  now  up  the  river,  now  down, 
and  came  over. 

"  What  's  up  ?  "  Sutherland  demanded. 
"  Nothing  much."  Nonchalance  sat  well  upon  the 
Kid.  "  Just  a  case  of  raising  hell  and  putting  a 
chunk  under.  See  that  bend  down  there  ? 
That 's  where  she  '11  jam  millions  of  tons  of  ice. 
Then  she  '11  jam  in  the  bends  up  above,  millions 
of  tons.  Upper  jam  breaks  first,  lower  jam 
holds,  pouf!"  He  dramatically  swept  the  island 
with  his  hand.  "  Millions  of  tons,"  he  added 
reflectively. 
u  And  what  of  the  woodpiles  ?  "  Davy  questioned. 


246         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

The  Kid  repeated  his  sweeping  gesture,  and 
Davy  wailed,  "  The  labor  of  months  !  It  canna 
be  !  Na,  na,  lad,  it  canna  be.  I  doot  not  it  's  a 
jowk.  Ay,  say  that  it  is,"  he  appealed. 
But  when  the  Kid  laughed  harshly  and  turned  on 
his  heel,  Davy  flung  himself  upon  the  piles  and 
began  frantically  to  toss  the  cordwood  back  from 
the  bank. 

"  Lend  a  hand,  Donald  !  "  he  cried.  "  Can  ye 
no  lend  a  hand  ?  'T  is  the  labor  of  months  and 
the  passage  home  !  " 

Donald  caught  him  by  the  arm  and  shook  him, 
but  he  tore  free.  "  Did  ye  no  hear,  man  ?  Mil- 
lions of  tons,  and  the  island  shall  be  sweepit 
clean." 

"  Straighten  yersel'  up,  man,"  said  Donald.  u  It 's 
a  bit  fashed  ye  are." 

But  Davy  fell  upon  the  cordwood.  Donald 
stalked  back  to  the  cabin,  buckled  on  his  money 
belt  and  Davy's,  and  went  out  to  the  point  of  the 
island  where  the  ground  was  highest  and  where  a 
huge  pine  towered  above  its  fellows. 


At  the  Rainbow's  End  247 
The  men  before  the  cabin  heard  the  ringing  of 
his  axe  and  smiled.  Greenwich  returned  from 
across  the  island  with  the  word  that  they  were 
penned  in.  It  was  impossible  to  cross  the  back- 
channel.  The  blind  Minook  man  began  to  sing, 
and  the  rest  joined  in  with  — 

"  Wonder  if  it  's  true  ? 
Does  it  seem  so  to  you  ? 
Seems  to  me  he  's  lying  — 
Oh,  I  wonder  if  it 's  tnie  ?  " 

"  It 's  ay  sinfu',"  Davy  moaned,  lifting  his  head  and 
watching  them  dance  in  the  slanting  rays  of  the 
sun.  "  And  my  guid  wood  a'  going  to  waste." 

"  Oh,  I  wonder  if  it 's  true," 
was  flaunted  back. 

The  noise  of  the  river  ceased  suddenly.  A 
strange  calm  wrapped  about  them.  The  ice  had 
ripped  from  the  shores  and  was  floating  higher 
on  the  surface  of  the  river,  which  was  rising.  Up 
it  came,  swift  and  silent,  for  twenty  feet,  till  the 
huge  cakes  rubbed  softly  against  the  crest  of  the 
bank.  The  tail  of  the  island,  being  lower,  was 


248  At  the  Rainbow's  End 
overrun.  Then,  without  effort,  the  white  flood 
started  down-stream.  But  the  sound  increased 
with  the  momentum,  and  soon  the  whole  island 
was  shaking  and  quivering  with  the  shock  of  the 
grinding  bergs.  Under  pressure,  the  mighty 
cakes,  weighing  hundreds  of  tons,  were  shot  into 
the  air  like  peas.  The  frigid  anarchy  increased  its 
riot,  and  the  men  had  to  shout  into  one  another's 
ears  to  be  heard.  Occasionally  the  racket  from 
the  back  channel  could  be  heard  above  the  tumult. 
The  island  shuddered  with  the  impact  of  an  enor- 
mous cake  which  drove  in  squarely  upon  its  point. 
It  ripped  a  score  of  pines  out  by  the  roots,  then 
swinging  around  and  over,  lifted  its  muddy  base 
from  the  bottom  of  the  river  and  bore  down  upon 
the  cabin,  slicing  the  bank  and  trees  away  like  a 
gigantic  knife.  It  seemed  barely  to  graze  the 
corner  of  the  cabin,  but  the  cribbed  logs  tilted  up 
like  matches,  and  the  structure,  like  a  toy  house, 
fell  backward  in  ruin. 

u  The  labor  of  months  !     The  labor  of  months, 
and    the    passage    home ! "    Davy    wailed,    while 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         249 

Montana  Kid  and  the  policeman  dragged  him 
backward  from  the  woodpiles. 
"  You  '11  Jave  plenty  o'  hoppertunity  all  in  good 
time  for  yer  passage  'ome,"  the  policeman 
growled,  clouting  him  alongside  the  head  and  send- 
ing him  flying  into  safety. 

Donald,  from  the  top  of  the  pine,  saw  the  devastat- 
ing berg  sweep  away  the  cordwood  and  disappear 
down-stream.  As  though  satisfied  with  this  damage, 
the  ice-flood  quickly  dropped  to  its  old  level  and  be- 
gan to  slacken  its  pace.  The  noise  likewise  eased 
down,  and  the  others  could  hear  Donald  shouting 
from  his  eyrie  to  look  down-stream.  As  forecast, 
the  jam  had  come  among  the  islands  in  the  bend, 
and  the  ice  was  piling  up  in  a  great  barrier  which 
stretched  from  shore  to  shore.  The  river  came  to 
a  standstill,  and  the  water  finding  no  outlet  began 
to  rise.  It  rushed  up  till  the  island  was  awash, 
the  men  splashing  around  up  to  their  knees,  and 
the  dogs  swimming  to  the  ruins  of  the  cabin.  At 
this  stage  it  abruptly  became  stationary,  with  no 
perceptible  rise  or  fall. 


250         At  the  Rainbow's  End 

Montana   Kid    shook    his   head.     "  It 's   jammed 
above,  and  no  more  Js  coming  down." 
"  And  the  gamble  is,  which  jam  will  break  first," 
Sutherland  added. 

"Exactly,"  the  Kid  affirmed.  "If  the  upper  jam 
breaks  first,  we  have  n't  a  chance.  Nothing  will 
stand  before  it." 

The  Minook  men  turned  away  in  silence,  but 
soon  "  Rumsky  Ho  "  floated  upon  the  quiet  air, 
followed  by  "The  Orange  and  the  Black." 
Room  was  made  in  the  circle  for  Montana  Kid 
and  the  policeman,  and  they  quickly  caught  the 
ringing  rhythm  of  the  choruses  as  they  drifted  on 
from  song  to  song. 

"  Oh,  Donald,  will  ye  no  lend  a  hand  ?  "  Davy 
sobbed  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  into  which  his  com- 
rade had  climbed.  "  Oh,  Donald,  man,  will  ye  no 
lend  a  hand  ? "  he  sobbed  again,  his  hands  bleed- 
ing from  vain  attempts  to  scale  the  slippery 
trunk. 

But  Donald  had  fixed  his  gaze  up  river,  and  now 
his  voice  rang  out,  vibrant  with  fear ;  — 


At  the  Rainbow's  End         251 

"  God  Almichty,  here  she  comes  !  " 
Standing  knee-deep  in  the  icy  water,  the  Minook 
men,  with  Montana  Kid  and  the  policeman, 
gripped  hands  and  raised  their  voices  in  the  terrible 
"  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic."  But  the  words 
were  drowned  in  the  advancing  roar. 
And  to  Donald  was  vouchsafed  a  sight  such  as  no 
man  may  see  and  live.  A  great  wall  of  white  flung 
itself  upon  the  island.  Trees,  dogs,  men,  were 
blotted  out,  as  though  the  hand  of  God  had  wiped 
the  face  of  nature  clean.  This  much  he  saw, 
then  swayed  an  instant  longer  in  his  lofty  perch 
and  hurtled  far  out  into  the  frozen  hell. 


The   Scorn   of  Women 


ONCE  Freda  and  Mrs.  Eppingwell  clashed. 
Now  Freda  was  a  Greek  girl  and  a 
dancer.  At  least  she  purported  to  be 
Greek;  but  this  was  doubted  by  many,  for  her 
classic  face  had  over-much  strength  in  it,  and  the 
tides  of  hell  which  rose  in  her  eyes  made  at  rare 
moments  her  ethnology  the  more  dubious.  To  a 
few  —  men  —  this  sight  had  been  vouchsafed,  and 
though  long  years  may  have  passed,  they  have  not 
forgotten,  nor  will  they  ever  forget.  She  never 
talked  of  herself,  so  that  it  were  well  to  let  it  go 
down  that  when  in  repose,  expurgated,  Greek  she 
certainly  was.  Her  furs  were  the  most  magnifi- 
cent in  all  the  country  from  Chilcoot  to  St. 
Michael's,  and  her  name  was  common  on  the  lips 
of  men.  But  Mrs.  Eppingwell  was  the  wife  of  a 


The  Scorn  of  Women  253 
captain ;  also  a  social  constellation  of  the  first 
magnitude,  the  path  of  her  orbit  marking  the  most 
select  coterie  in  Dawson,  —  a  coterie  captioned  by 
the  profane  as  the  "  official  clique."  Sitka  Charley 
had  travelled  trail  with  her  once,  when  famine 
drew  tight  and  a  man's  life  was  less  than  a  cup 
of  flour,  and  his  judgment  placed  her  above  all 
women.  Sitka  Charley  was  an  Indian;  his  criteria 
were  primitive ;  but  his  word  was  fiat,  and  his 
verdict  a  hall-mark  in  every  camp  under  the 
circle. 

These  two  women  were  man-conquering,  man- 
subduing  machines,  each  in  her  own  way,  and 
their  ways  were  different.  Mrs.  Eppingwell  ruled 
in  her  own  house,  and  at  the  Barracks,  where  were 
younger  sons  galore,  to  say  nothing  of  the  chiefs 
of  the  police,  the  executive,  and  the  judiciary. 
Freda  ruled  down  in  the  town  ;  but  the  men  she 
ruled  were  the  same  who  functioned  socially  at 
the  Barracks  or  were  fed  tea  and  canned  preserves 
at  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Eppingwell  in  her  hillside  cabin 
of  rough-hewn  logs.  Each  knew  the  other 


254          The  Scorn  of  Women 

existed  ;  but  their  lives  were  apart  as  the  Poles, 
and  while  they  must  have  heard  stray  bits  of  news 
and  were  curious,  they  were  never  known  to  ask  a 
question.  And  there  would  have  been  no  trouble 
had  not  a  free  lance  in  the  shape  of  the  model- 
woman  come  into  the  land  on  the  first  ice,  with  a 
spanking  dog-team  and  a  cosmopolitan  reputation. 
Loraine  Lisznayi  —  alliterative,  dramatic,  and 
Hungarian  —  precipitated  the  strife,  and  because 
of  her  Mrs.  Eppingwell  left  her  hillside  and  in- 
vaded Freda's  domain,  and  Freda  likewise  went  up 
from  the  town  to  spread  confusion  and  embarrass- 
ment at  the  Governor's  ball. 

All  of  which  may  be  ancient  history  so  far  as  the 
Klondike  is  concerned,  but  very  few,  even  in 
Dawson,  know  the  inner  truth  of  the  matter ;  nor 
beyond  those  few  are  there  any  fit  to  measure  the 
wife  of  the  captain  or  the  Greek  dancer.  And 
that  all  are  now  permitted  to  understand,  let  honor 
be  accorded  Sitka  Charley.  From  his  lips  fell  the 
main  facts  in  the  screed  herewith  presented.  It  ill 
befits  that  Freda  herself  should  have  waxed  confi- 


The  Scorn  of  Women          255 

dential  to  a  mere  scribbler  of  words,  or  that  Mrs. 

Eppingwell  made   mention   of   the  things   which 

happened.  They  may  have  spoken,  but  it  is 
unlikely. 

ii 

Floyd  Vanderlip  was  a  strong  man,  apparently. 
Hard  work  and  hard  grub  had  no  terrors  for  him, 
as  his  early  history  in  the  country  attested.  In 
danger  he  was  a  lion,  and  when  he  held  in  check 
half  a  thousand  starving  men,  as  he  once  did,  it 
was  remarked  that  no  cooler  eye  ever  took  the 
glint  of  sunshine  on  a  rifle-sight.  He  had  but  one 
weakness,  and  even  that,  rising  from  out  his 
strength,  was  of  a  negative  sort.  His  parts  were 
strong,  but  they  lacked  co-ordination.  Now  it 
happened  that  while  his  centre  of  amativeness  was 
pronounced,  it  had  lain  mute  and  passive  during 
the  years  he  lived  on  moose  and  salmon  and 
chased  glowing  Eldorados  over  chill  divides.  But 
when  he  finally  blazed  the  corner-post  and  centre- 
stakes  on  one  of  the  richest  Klondike  claims,  it 


256  The  Scorn  of  Women 
began  to  quicken ;  and  when  he  took  his  place  in 
society,  a  full-fledged  Bonanza  King,  it  awoke  and 
took  charge  of  him.  He  suddenly  recollected  a 
girl  in  the  States,  and  it  came  to  him  quite  forci- 
bly, not  only  that  she  might  be  waiting  for  him, 
but  that  a  wife  was  a  very  pleasant  acquisition  for 
a  man  who  lived  some  several  degrees  north  of 
53.  So  he  wrote  an  appropriate  note,  enclosed 
a  letter  of  credit  generous  enough  to  cover  all 
expenses,  including  trousseau  and  chaperon,  and 
addressed  it  to  one  Flossie.  Flossie  ?  One  could 
imagine  the  rest.  However,  after  that  he  built  a 
comfortable  cabin  on  his  claim,  bought  another  in 
Dawson,  and  broke  the  news  to  his  friends. 
And  just  here  is  where  the  lack  of  co-ordination 
came  into  play.  The  waiting  was  tedious,  and 
having  been  long  denied,  the  amative  element 
could  not  brook  further  delay.  Flossie  was  com- 
ing ;  but  Loraine  Lisznayi  was  here.  And  not 
only  was  Loraine  Lisznayi  here,  but  her  cosmo- 
politan reputation  was  somewhat  the  worse  for 
wear,  and  she  was  not  exactly  so  young  as  when 


The  Scorn  of  Women         257 

she  posed  in  the  studios  of  artist  queens  and 
received  at  her  door  the  cards  of  cardinals  and 
princes.  Also,  her  finances  were  unhealthy.  Hav- 
ing run  the  gamut  in  her  time,  she  was  now  not 
averse  to  trying  conclusions  with  a  Bonanza  King 
whose  wealth  was  such  that  he  could  not  guess  it 
within  six  figures.  Like  a  wise  soldier  casting 
about  after  years  of  service  for  a  comfortable  bil- 
let, she  had  come  into  the  Northland  to  be  mar- 
ried. So,  one  day,  her  eyes  flashed  up  into  Floyd 
Vanderlip's  as  he  was  buying  table  linen  for 
Flossie  in  the  P.  C.  Company's  store,  and  the 
thing  was  settled  out  of  hand. 
When  a  man  is  free  much  may  go  unquestioned, 
which,  should  he  be  rash  enough  to  cumber  him- 
self with  domestic  ties,  society  will  instantly 
challenge.  Thus  it  was  with  Floyd  Vanderlip. 
Flossie  was  coming,  and  a  low  buzz  went  up 
when  Loraine  Lisznayi  rode  down  the  main 
street  behind  his  wolf-dogs.  She  accompanied 
the  lady  reporter  of  the  "Kansas  City  Star" 
when  photographs  were  taken  of  his  Bonanza 
17 


258          The  Scorn  of  Women 

properties,  and  watched  the  genesis  of  a  six- 
column  article.  At  that  time  they  were  dined 
royally  in  Flossie's  cabin,  on  Flossie's  table  linen. 
Likewise  there  were  comings  and  goings,  and 
junketings,  all  perfectly  proper,  by  the  way,  which 
caused  the  men  to  say  sharp  things  and  the  women 
to  be  spiteful.  Only  Mrs.  Eppingwell  did  not 
hear.  The  distant  hum  of  wagging  tongues  rose 
faintly,  but  she  was  prone  to  believe  good  of 
people  and  to  close  her  ears  to  evil ;  so  she  paid 
no  heed. 

Not  so  with  Freda.  She  had  no  cause  to  love 
men,  but,  by  some  strange  alchemy  of  her  nature, 
her  heart  went  out  to  women,  —  to  women  whom 
she  had  less  cause  to  love.  And  her  heart  went 
out  to  Flossie,  even  then  travelling  the  Long 
Trail  and  facing  into  the  bitter  North  to  meet 
a  man  who  might  not  wait  for  her.  A  shrinking, 
clinging  sort  of  a  girl,  Freda  pictured  her,  with 
weak  mouth  and  pretty  pouting  lips,  blow-away 
sun-kissed  hair,  and  eyes  full  of  the  merry  shal- 
lows and  the  lesser  joys  of  life.  But  she  also 


The  Scorn  of  Women          259 

pictured  Flossie,  face  nose-strapped  and  frost- 
rimed,  stumbling  wearily  behind  the  dogs.  Where- 
fore she  smiled,  dancing  one  night,  upon  Floyd 
Vanderlip. 

Few  men  are  so  constituted  that  they  may  receive 
the  smile  of  Freda  unmoved ;  nor  among  them 
can  Floyd  Vanderlip  be  accounted.  The  grace 
he  had  found  with  the  model-woman  had  caused 
him  to  re-measure  himself,  and  by  the  favor  in 
which  he  now  stood  with  the  Greek  dancer  he 
felt  himself  doubly  a  man.  There  were  unknown 
qualities  and  depths  in  him,  evidently,  which  they 
perceived.  He  did  not  know  exactly  what  those 
qualities  and  depths  were,  but  he  had  a  hazy  idea 
that  they  were  there  somewhere,  and  of  them  was 
bred  a  great  pride  in  himself.  A  man  who  could 
force  two  women  such  as  these  to  look  upon  him 
a  second  time,  was  certainly  a  most  remarkable 
man.  Some  day,  when  he  had  the  time,  he  would 
sit  down  and  analyze  his  strength ;  but  now,  just 
now,  he  would  take  what  the  gods  had  given  him. 
And  a  thin  little  thought  began  to  lift  itself,  and 


260         The  Scorn  of  Women 

he  fell  to  wondering  whatever  under  the  sun  he 
had  seen  in  Flossie,  and  to  regret  exceedingly  that 
he  had  sent  for  her.  Of  course,  Freda  was  out 
of  the  running.  His  dumps  were  the  richest  on 
Bonanza  Creek,  and  they  were  many,  while  he 
was  a  man  of  responsibility  and  position.  But 
Loraine  Lisznayi  —  she  was  just  the  woman. 
Her  life  had  been  large ;  she  could  do  the  honors  of 
his  establishment  and  give  tone  to  his  dollars. 
But  Freda  smiled,  and  continued  to  smile,  till  he 
came  to  spend  much  time  with  her.  When  she, 
too,  rode  down  the  street  behind  his  wolf-dogs,  the 
model-woman  found  food  for  thought,  and  the 
next  time  they  were  together  dazzled  him  with 
her  princes  and  cardinals  and  personal  little  anec- 
dotes of  courts  and  kings.  She  also  showed  him 
dainty  missives,  superscribed,  u  My  dear  Loraine," 
and  ended  u  Most  affectionately  yours,"  and  signed 
by  the  given  name  of  a  real  live  queen  on  a  throne. 
And  he  marvelled  in  his  heart  that  the  great  woman 
should  deign  to  waste  so  much  as  a  moment  upon 
him.  But  she  played  him  cleverly,  making  flatter- 


The  Scorn  of  Women  261 
ing  contrasts  and  comparisons  between  him  and 
the  noble  phantoms  she  drew  mainly  from  her 
fancy,  till  he  went  away  dizzy  with  self-delight 
and  sorrowing  for  the  world  which  had  been 
denied  him  so  long.  Freda  was  a  more  masterful 
woman.  If  she  flattered,  no  one  knew  it.  Should 
she  stoop,  the  stoop  were  unobserved.  If  a  man 
felt  she  thought  well  of  him,  so  subtly  was  the 
feeling  conveyed  that  he  could  not  for  the  life  of 
him  say  why  or  how.  So  she  tightened  her  grip 
upon  Floyd  Vanderlip  and  rode  daily  behind  his 
dogs. 

And  just  here  is  where  the  mistake  occurred. 
The  buzz  rose  loudly  and  more  definitely,  coupled 
now  with  the  name  of  the  dancer,  and  Mrs.  Epp- 
ingwell  heard.  She,  too,  thought  of  Flossie  lift- 
ing her  moccasined  feet  through  the  endless  hours, 
and  Floyd  Vanderlip  was  invited  up  the  hillside 
to  tea,  and  invited  often.  This  quite  took  his 
breath  away,  and  he  became  drunken  with  appre- 
ciation of  himself.  Never  was  man  so  maltreated. 
His  soul  had  become  a  thing  for  which  three 


262         The  Scorn  of  Women 

women  struggled,  while  a  fourth  was  on  the  way 
to  claim  it.  And  three  such  women  ! 
But  Mrs.  Eppingwell  and  the  mistake  she  made. 
She  spoke  of  the  affair,  tentatively,  to  Sitka  Charley, 
who  had  sold  dogs  to  the  Greek  girl.  But  no 
names  were  mentioned.  The  nearest  approach 
to  it  was  when  Mrs.  Eppingwell  said,  "This  — 
er  —  horrid  woman,"  and  Sitka  Charley,  with  the 
model-woman  strong  in  his  thoughts,  had  echoed, 
"  This  —  er  —  horrid  woman."  And  he  agreed 
with  her,  that  it  was  a  wicked  thing  for  a  woman 
to  come  between  a  man  and  the  girl  he  was  to 
marry.  u  A  mere  girl,  Charley,"  she  said,  "  I  am 
sure  she  is.  And  she  is  coming  into  a  strange 
country  without  a  friend  when  she  gets  here.  We 
must  do  something."  Sitka  Charley  promised  his 
help,  and  went  away  thinking  what  a  wicked 
woman  this  Loraine  Lisznayi  must  be,  also  what 
noble  women  Mrs.  Eppingwell  and  Freda  were 
to  interest  themselves  in  the  welfare  of  the  un- 
known Flossie. 
Now  Mrs.  Eppingwell  was  open  as  the  day.  To 


The  Scorn  of  Women  263 
Sitka  Charley,  who  took  her  once  past  the  Hills 
of  Silence,  belongs  the  glory  of  having  memorial- 
ized her  clear-searching  eyes,  her  clear-ringing 
voice,  and  her  utter  downright  frankness.  Her 
lips  had  a  way  of  stiffening  to  command,  and  she 
was  used  to  coming  straight  to  the  point.  Hav- 
ing taken  Floyd  Vanderlip's  measurement,  she  did 
not  dare  this  with  him ;  but  she  was  not  afraid 
to  go  down  into  the  town  to  Freda.  And  down 
she  went,  in  the  bright  light  of  day,  to  the  house 
of  the  dancer.  She  was  above  silly  tongues,  as 
was  her  husband,  the  captain.  She  wished  to  see 
this  woman  and  to  speak  with  her,  nor  was  she 
aware  of  any  reason  why  she  should  not.  So  she 
stood  in  the  snow  at  the  Greek  girl's  door,  with 
the  frost  at  sixty  below,  and  parleyed  with  the 
waiting-maid  for  a  full  five  minutes.  She  had 
also  the  pleasure  of  being  turned  away  from  that 
door,  and  of  going  back  up  the  hill,  wroth  at  heart 
for  the  indignity  which  had  been  put  upon  her. 
u  Who  was  this  woman  that  she  should  refuse  to 
see  her  ?  "  she  asked  herself,  One  would  think  it 


264  The  Scorn  of  Women 
the  other  way  around,  and  she  herself  but  a  danc- 
ing girl  denied  at  the  door  of  the  wife  of  a  cap- 
tain. As  it  was,  she  knew,  had  Freda  come  up  the 
hill  to  her,  —  no  matter  what  the  errand,  —  she 
would  have  made  her  welcome  at  her  fire,  and  they 
would  have  sat  there  as  two  women,  and  talked, 
merely  as  two  women.  She  had  overstepped  con- 
vention and  lowered  herself,  but  she  had  thought 
it  different  with  the  women  down  in  the  town. 
And  she  was  ashamed  that  she  had  laid  herself 
open  to  such  dishonor,  and  her  thoughts  of  Freda 
were  unkind. 

Not  that  Freda  deserved  this.  Mrs.  Eppingwell 
had  descended  to  meet  her  who  was  without  caste, 
while  she,  strong  in  the  traditions  of  her  own 
earlier  status,  had  not  permitted  it.  She  could 
worship  such  a  woman,  and  she  would  have  asked 
no  greater  joy  than  to  have  had  her  into  the  cabin 
and  sat  with  her,  just  sat  with  her,  for  an  hour. 
But  her  respect  for  Mrs.  Eppingwell,  and  her  re- 
spect for  herself,  who  was  beyond  respect,  had  pre- 
vented her  doing  that  which  she  most  desired. 


The  Scorn  of  Women          265 

Though  not  quite  recovered  from  the  recent  visit 
of  Mrs.  McFee,  the  wife  of  the  minister,  who  had 
descended  upon  her  in  a  whirlwind  of  exhortation 
and  brimstone,  she  could  not  imagine  what  had 
prompted  the  present  visit.  She  was  not  aware 
of  any  particular  wrong  she  had  done,  and  surely 
this  woman  who  waited  at  the  door  was  not  con- 
cerned with  the  welfare  of  her  soul.  Why  had 
she  come  ?  For  all  the  curiosity  she  could  not 
help  but  feel,  she  steeled  herself  in  the  pride  of 
those  who  are  withou.t  pride,  and  trembled  in  the 
inner  room  like  a  maid  on  the  first  caress  of  a 
lover.  If  Mrs.  Eppingwell  suffered  going  up  the 
hill,  she  too  suffered,  lying  face  downward  on  the 
bed,  dry-eyed,  dry-mouthed,  dumb. 
Mrs.  Eppingwell's  knowledge  of  human  nature 
was  great.  She  aimed  at  universality.  She  had 
found  it  easy  to  step  from  the  civilized  and  con- 
template things  from  the  barbaric  aspect.  She 
could  comprehend  certain  primal  and  analogous 
characteristics  in  a  hungry  wolf-dog  or  a  starv- 
ing man,  and  predicate  lines  of  action  to  be  pur- 


266         The  Scorn  of  Women 

sued  by  either  under  like  conditions.  To  her, 
a  woman  was  a  woman,  whether  garbed  in 
purple  or  the  rags  of  the  gutter;  Freda  was  a 
woman.  She  would  not  have  been  surprised  had 
she  been  taken  into  the  dancer's  cabin  and  en- 
countered on  common  ground ;  nor  surprised  had 
she  been  taken  in  and  flaunted  in  prideless  arro- 
gance. But  to  be  treated  as  she  had  been  treated, 
was  unexpected  and  disappointing.  Ergo,  she  had 
not  caught  Freda's  point  of  view.  And  this  was 
good.  There  are  some  points  of  view  which  can- 
not be  gained  save  through  much  travail  and  per- 
sonal crucifixion,  and  it  were  well  for  the  world 
that  its  Mrs.  Eppingwells  should,  in  certain  ways, 
fall  short  of  universality.  One  cannot  understand 
defilement  without  laying  hands  to  pitch,  which 
is  very  sticky,  while  there  be  plenty  willing  to 
undertake  the  experiment.  All  of  which  is  of 
small  concern,  beyond  the  fact  that  it  gave  Mrs. 
Eppingwell  ground  for  grievance,  and  bred  for  her 
a  greater  love  in  the  Greek  girl's  heart. 


The  Scorn  of  Women         267 
III 

And  in  this  way  things  went  along  for  a  month,  — 
Mrs.  Eppingwell  striving  to  withhold  the  man  from 
the  Greek  dancer's  blandishments  against  the  time 
of  Flossie's  coming ;  Flossie  lessening  the  miles 
each  day  on  the  dreary  trail ;  Freda  pitting  her 
strength  against  the  model-woman ;  the  model- 
woman  straining  every  nerve  to  land  the  prize; 
and  the  man  moving  through  it  all  like  a  flying 
shuttle,  very  proud  of  himself,  whom  he  believed  to 
be  a  second  Don  Juan. 

It  was  nobody's  fault  except  the  man's  that 
Loraine  Lisznayi  at  last  landed  him.  The  way 
of  a  man  with  a  maid  may  be  too  wonderful  to 
know,  but  the  way  of  a  woman  with  a  man 
passeth  all  conception ;  whence  the  prophet  were 
indeed  unwise  who  would  dare  forecast  Floyd 
Vanderlip's  course  twenty-four  hours  in  advance. 
Perhaps  the  model-woman's  attraction  lay  in  that 
to  the  eye  she  was  a  handsome  animal ;  perhaps 
she  fascinated  him  with  her  old-world  talk  of 


268         The  Scorn  of  Women 

palaces  and  princes ;  leastwise  she  dazzled  him 
whose  life  had  been  worked  out  in  uncultured 
roughness,  and  he  at  last  agreed  to  her  suggestion 
of  a  run  down  the  river  and  a  marriage  at  Forty 
Mile.  In  token  of  his  intention  he  bought  dogs 
from  Sitka  Charley,  —  more  than  one  sled  is 
necessary  when  a  woman  like  Loraine  Lisznayi 
takes  to  the  trail,  —  and  then  went  up  the  creek  to 
give  orders  for  the  superintendence  of  his  Bonanza 
mines  during  his  absence. 

He  had  given  it  out,  rather  vaguely,  that  he 
needed  the  animals  for  sledding  lumber  from  the 
mill  to  his  sluices,  and  right  here  is  where  Sitka 
Charley  demonstrated  his  fitness.  He  agreed  to 
furnish  dogs  on  a  given  date,  but  no  sooner  had 
Floyd  Vanderlip  turned  his  toes  up-creek,  than 
Charley  hied  himself  away  in  perturbation  to 
Loraine  Lisznayi.  Did  she  know  where  Mr. 
Vanderlip  had  gone  ?  He  had  agreed  to  supply 
that  gentleman  with  a  big  string  of  dogs  by  a  cer- 
tain time  ;  but  that  shameless  one,  the  German 
trader  Meyers,  had  been  buying  up  the  brutes  and 


The  Scorn  of  Women         269 

skimped  the  market.  It  was  very  necessary  he 
should  see  Mr.  Vanderlip,  because  of  the  shame- 
less one  he  would  be  all  of  a  week  behindhand  in 
filling  the  contract.  She  did  know  where  he  had 
gone  ?  Up-creek  ?  Good  !  He  would  strike 
out  after  him  at  once  and  inform  him  of  the  un- 
happy delay.  Did  he  understand  her  to  say  that 
Mr.  Vanderlip  needed  the  dogs  on  Friday  night  ? 
that  he  must  have  them  by  that  time  ?  It  was  too 
bad,  but  it  was  the  fault  of  the  shameless  one  who 
had  bid  up  the  prices.  They  had  jumped  fifty 
dollars  per  head,  and  should  he  buy  on  the  rising 
market  he  would  lose  by  the  contract.  He  won- 
dered if  Mr.  Vanderlip  would  be  willing  to  meet  the 
advance.  She  knew  he  would  ?  Being  Mr.  Vander- 
lip's  friend,  she  would  even  meet  the  difference  her- 
self ?  And  he  was  to  say  nothing  about  it  ?  She  was 
kind  to  so  look  to  his  interests.  Friday  night,  did 
she  say  ?  Good  !  The  dogs  would  be  on  hand. 
An  hour  later,  Freda  knew  the  elopement  was  to 
be  pulled  off  on  Friday  night ;  also,  that  Floyd 
Vanderlip  had  gone  up-creek,  and  her  hands  were 


270         The  Scorn  of  Women 

tied.  On  Friday  morning,  Devereaux,  the  official 
courier,  bearing  despatches  from  the  Governor,  ar- 
rived over  the  ice.  Besides  the  despatches,  he 
brought  news  of  Flossie.  He  had  passed  her  camp 
at  Sixty  Mile  ;  humans  and  dogs  were  in  good  con- 
dition ;  and  she  would  doubtless  be  in  on  the  mor- 
row. Mrs.  Eppingwell  experienced  a  great  relief 
on  hearing  this;  Floyd  Vanderlip  was  safe  up-creek, 
and  ere  the  Greek  girl  could  again  lay  hands  upon 
him,  his  bride  would  be  on  the  ground.  But  that 
afternoon  her  big  St.  Bernard,  valiantly  defending 
her  front  stoop,  was  downed  by  a  foraging  party  of 
trail-starved  Malemutes.  He  was  buried  beneath 
the  hirsute  mass  for  about  thirty  seconds,  when 
rescued  by  a  couple  of  axes  and  as  many  stout 
men.  Had  he  remained  down  two  minutes,  the 
chances  were  large  that  he  would  have  been 
roughly  apportioned  and  carried  away  in  the  re- 
spective bellies  of  the  attacking  party  ;  but  as  it 
was,  it  was  a  mere  case  of  neat  and  expeditious 
mangling.  Sitka  Charley  came  to  repair  the 
damages,  especially  a  right  fore-paw  which  had 


The  Scorn  of  Women         271 

inadvertently  been  left  a  fraction  of  a  second  too 
long  in  some  other  dog's  mouth.  As  he  put  on 
his  mittens  to  go,  the  talk  turned  upon  Flossie  and 
in  natural  sequence  passed  on  to  the  —  "  er  horrid 
woman."  Sitka  Charley  remarked  incidentally  that 
she  intended  jumping  out  down  river  that  night  with 
Floyd  Vanderlip,  and  further  ventured  the  informa- 
tion that  accidents  were  very  likely  at  that  time 
of  year. 

So  Mrs.  Eppingwell's  thoughts  of  Freda  were 
unkinder  than  ever.  She  wrote  a  note,  addressed 
it  to  the  man  in  question,  and  intrusted  it  to  a 
messenger  who  lay  in  wait  at  the  mouth  of 
Bonanza  Creek.  Another  man,  bearing  a  note 
from  Freda,  also  waited  at  that  strategic  point. 
So  it  happened  that  Floyd  Vanderlip,  riding  his 
sled  merrily  down  with  the  last  daylight,  received 
the  notes  together.  He  tore  Freda's  across.  No, 
he  would  not  go  to  see  her.  There  were  greater 
things  afoot  that  night.  Besides,  she  was  out  of 
the  running.  But  Mrs.  Eppingwell !  He  would 
observe  her  last  wish,  —  or  rather,  the  last  wish 


272  The  Scorn  of  Women 
it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  observe,  —  and 
meet  her  at  the  Governor's  ball  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  say.  From  the  tone  of  the  writing  it  was 
evidently  important ;  perhaps —  He  smiled  fondly, 
but  failed  to  shape  the  thought.  Confound  it  all, 
what  a  lucky  fellow  he  was  with  the  women  any 
way  !  Scattering  her  letter  to  the  frost,  he  mushed 
the  dogs  into  a  swinging  lope  and  headed  for 
his  cabin.  It  was  to  be  a  masquerade,  and  he 
had  to  dig  up  the  costume  used  at  the  Opera 
House  a  couple  of  months  before.  Also,  he  had 
to  shave  and  to  eat.  Thus  it  was  that  he, 
alone  of  all  interested,  was  unaware  of  Flossie's 
proximity. 

"  Have  them  down  to  the  water-hole  off  the  hos- 
pital, at  midnight,  sharp.  Don't  fail  me,"  he  said 
to  Sitka  Charley,  who  dropped  in  with  the  advice 
that  only  one  dog  was  lacking  to  fill  the  bill,  and 
that  that  one  would  be  forthcoming:  in  an  hour 

o 

or  so.  "  Here  's  the  sack.  There  's  the  scales. 
Weigh  out  your  own  dust  and  don't  bother  me. 
I  've  got  to  get  ready  for  the  ball." 


The  Scorn  of  Women         273 

Sitka  Charley  weighed  out  his  pay  and  departed, 
carrying  with  him  a  letter  to  Loraine  Lisznayi,  the 
contents  of  which  he  correctly  imagined  to  refer 
to  a  meeting  at  the  water-hole  off  the  hospital,  at 
midnight,  sharp. 

IV 

Twice  Freda  sent  messengers  up  to  the  Barracks, 
where  the  dance  was  in  full  swing,  and  as  often 
they  came  back  without  answers.  Then  she  did 
what  only  Freda  could  do  —  put  on  her  furs, 
masked  her  face,  and  went  up  herself  to  the  Gov- 
ernor's ball.  Now  there  happened  to  be  a  cus- 
tom —  not  an  original  one  by  any  means  —  to 
which  the  official  clique  had  long  since  become 
addicted.  It  was  a  very  wise  custom,  for  it  fur- 
nished protection  to  the  womankind  of  the  offi- 
cials and  gave  greater  selectness  to  their  revels. 
Whenever  a  masquerade  was  given,  a  committee 
was  chosen,  the  sole  function  of  which  was  to 
stand  by  the  door  and  peep  beneath  each  and 
every  mask.  Most  men  did  not  clamor  to  be 
18 


274         The  Scorn  of  Women 

placed  upon  this  committee,  while  the  very  ones 
who  least  desired  the  honor  were  the  ones  whose 
services  were  most  required.  The  chaplain  was  not 
well  enough  acquainted  with  the  faces  and  places 
of  the  townspeople  to  know  whom  to  admit  and 
whom  to  turn  away.  In  like  condition  were  the 
several  other  worthy  gentlemen  who  would  have 
asked  nothing  better  than  to  so  serve.  To  fill  the 
coveted  place,  Mrs.  McFee  would  have  risked  her 
chance  of  salvation,  and  did,  one  night,  when  a 
certain  trio  passed  in  under  her  guns  and  muddled 
things  considerably  before  their  identity  was  dis- 
covered. Thereafter  only  the  fit  were  chosen, 
and  very  ungracefully  did  they  respond. 
On  this  particular  night  Prince  was  at  the  door. 
Pressure  had  been  brought  to  bear,  and  he  had  not 
yet  recovered  from  amaze  at  his  having  consented 
to  undertake  a  task  which  bid  fair  to  lose  him  half 
his  friends,  merely  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  the 
other  half.  Three  or  four  of  the  men  he  had 
refused  were  men  whom  he  had  known  on  creek 
and  trail,  —  good  comrades,  but  not  exactly  eligible 


The  Scorn  of  Women         275 

for  so  select  an  affair.  He  was  canvassing  the 
expediency  of  resigning  the  post  there  and  then, 
when  a  woman  tripped  in  under  the  light.  Freda  ! 
He  could  swear  it  by  the  furs,  did  he  not  know 
that  poise  of  head  so  well.  The  last  one  to  ex- 
pect in  all  the  world.  He  had  given  her  better 
judgment  than  to  thus  venture  the  ignominy  of 
refusal,  or,  if  she  passed,  the  scorn  of  women. 
He  shook  his  head,  without  scrutiny ;  he  knew 
her  too  well  to  be  mistaken.  But  she  pressed 
closer.  She  lifted  the  black  silk  ribbon  and  as 
quickly  lowered  it  again.  For  one  flashing,  eter- 
nal second  he  looked  upon  her  face.  It  was  not 
for  nothing,  the  saying  which  had  arisen  in  the 
country,  that  Freda  played  with  men  as  a  child 
with  bubbles.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Prince 
stepped  aside,  and  a  few  moments  later  might  have 
been  seen  resigning,  with  warm  incoherence,  the 
post  to  which  he  had  been  unfaithful. 

A  woman,  flexible  of  form,  slender,  yet  rhythmic 
of  strength  in  every  movement,  now  pausing  with 


276         The  Scorn  of  Women 

this  group,  now  scanning  that,  urged  a  restless 
and  devious  course  among  the  revellers.  Men 
recognized  the  furs,  and  marvelled,  —  men  who 
should  have  served  upon  the  door  committee ;  but 
they  were  not  prone  to  speech.  Not  so  with  the 
women.  They  had  better  eyes  for  the  lines  of 
figure  and  tricks  of  carriage,  and  they  knew  this 
form  to  be  one  with  which  they  were  unfamiliar ; 
likewise  the  furs.  Mrs.  McFee,  emerging  from  the 
supper-room  where  all  was  in  readiness,  caught 
one  flash  of  the  blazing,  questing  eyes  through  the 
silken  mask-slits,  and  received  a  start.  She  tried 
to  recollect  where  she  had  seen  the  like,  and  a 
vivid  picture  was  recalled  of  a  certain  proud  and 
rebellious  sinner  whom  she  had  once  encountered 
on  a  fruitless  errand  for  the  Lord. 
So  it  was  that  the  good  woman  took  the  trail  in 
hot  and  righteous  wrath,  a  trail  which  brought  her 
ultimately  into  the  company  of  Mrs.  Eppingwell 
and  Floyd  Vanderlip.  Mrs.  Eppingwell  had  just 
found  the  opportunity  to  talk  with  the  man.  She 
had  determined,  now  that  Flossie  was  so  near  at 


The  Scorn  of  Women          277 

hand,  to  proceed  directly  to  the  point,  and  an 
incisive  little  ethical  discourse  was  titillating  on 
the  end  of  her  tongue,  when  the  couple  became 
three.  She  noted,  and  pleasurably,  the  faintly 
foreign  accent  of  the  "  Beg  pardon  "  with  which 
the  furred  woman  prefaced  her  immediate  appro- 
priation of  Floyd  Vanderlip ;  and  she  courteously 
bowed  her  permission  for  them  to  draw  a  little 
apart. 

Then  it  was  that  Mrs.  McFee's  righteous  hand 
descended,  and  accompanying  it  in  its  descent  was 
a  black  mask  torn  from  a  startled  woman.  A 
wonderful  face  and  brilliant  eyes  were  exposed 
to  the  quiet  curiosity  of  those  who  looked  that 
way,  and  they  were  everybody.  Floyd  Vanderlip 
was  rather  confused.  The  situation  demanded 
instant  action  on  the  part  of  a  man  who  was  not 
beyond  his  depth,  while  he  hardly  knew  where 
he  was.  He  stared  helplessly  about  him.  Mrs. 
Eppingwell  was  perplexed.  She  could  not  com- 
prehend. An  explanation  was  forthcoming,  some- 
where, and  Mrs.  McFee  was  equal  to  it. 


278         The  Scorn  of  Women 

"  Mrs.  Eppingwell,"  and  her  Celtic  voice  rose 
shrilly,  "  it  is  with  great  pleasure  I  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  Freda  Moloof,  Miss  Freda  Moloof, 
as  I  understand." 

Freda  involuntarily  turned.  With  her  own  face 
bared,  she  felt  as  in  a  dream,  naked,  upon  her 
turned  the  clothed  features  and  gleaming  eyes  of 
the  masked  circle.  It  seemed,  almost,  as  though 
a  hungry  wolf-pack  girdled  her,  ready  to  drag  her 
down.  It  might  chance  that  some  felt  pity  for 
her,  she  thought,  and  at  the  thought,  hardened. 
She  would  by  far  prefer  their  scorn.  Strong  of 
heart  was  she,  this  woman,  and  though  she  had 
hunted  the  prey  into  the  midst  of  the  pack,  Mrs. 
Eppingwell  or  no  Mrs.  Eppingwell,  she  could  not 
forego  the  kill. 

But  here  Mrs.  Eppingwell  did  a  strange  thing. 
So  this,  at  last,  was  Freda,  she  mused,  the 
dancer  and  the  destroyer  of  men ;  the  woman 
from  whose  door  she  had  been  turned.  And  she, 
too,  felt  the  imperious  creature's  nakedness  as 
though  it  were  her  own.  Perhaps  it  was  this,  her 


The  Scorn  of  Women         279 

Saxon  disinclination  to  meet  a  disadvantaged  foe, 
perhaps,  forsooth,  that  it  might  give  her  greater 
strength  in  the  struggle  for  the  man,  and  it  might 
have  been  a  little  of  both;  but  be  that  as  it 
may,  she  did  do  this  strange  thing.  When  Mrs. 
McFee's  thin  voice,  vibrant  with  malice,  had 
raised,  and  Freda  turned  involuntarily,  Mrs.  Epp- 
ingwell  also  turned,  removed  her  mask,  and  in- 
clined her  head  in  acknowledgment. 
It  was  another  flashing,  eternal  second,  during 
which  these  two  women  regarded  each  other. 
The  one,  eyes  blazing,  meteoric;  at  bay,  aggres- 
sive ;  suffering  in  advance  and  resenting  in  ad- 
vance the  scorn  and  ridicule  and  insult  she  had 
thrown  herself  open  to ;  a  beautiful,  burning, 
bubbling  lava  cone  of  flesh  and  spirit.  And  the 
other,  calm-eyed,  cool-browed,  serene ;  strong  in 
her  own  integrity,  with  faith  in  herself,  thoroughly 
at  ease ;  dispassionate,  imperturbable ;  a  figure 
chiselled  from  some  cold  marble  quarry.  What- 
ever gulf  there  might  exist,  she  recognized  it  not. 
No  bridging,  no  descending ;  her  attitude  was  that 


280         The  Scorn  of  Women 

of  perfect  equality.  She  stood  tranquilly  on  the 
ground  of  their  common  womanhood.  And  this 
maddened  Freda.  Not  so,  had  she  been  of 
lesser  breed ;  but  her  soul's  plummet  knew 
not  the  bottomless,  and  she  could  follow  the 
other  into  the  deeps  of  her  deepest  depths  and 
read  her  aright.  "Why  do  you  not  draw  back 
your  garment's  hem  ? "  she  was  fain  to  cry 
out,  all  in  that  flashing,  dazzling  second.  u  Spit 
upon  me,  revile  me,  and  it  were  greater  mercy 
than  this  ! "  She  trembled.  Her  nostrils  dis- 
tended and  quivered.  But  she  drew  herself  in 
check,  returned  the  inclination  of  head,  and 
turned  to  the  man. 

"  Come  with  me,  Floyd,"  she  said  simply.  "  I 
want  you  now." 

"  What  the  —  "  he  began  explosively,  and  quit  as 
suddenly,  discreet  enough  to  not  round  it  off. 
Where  the  deuce  had  his  wits  gone,  anyway  ? 
Was  ever  a  man  more  foolishly  placed  ?  He 
gurgled  deep  down  in  his  throat  and  high  up  in 
the  roof  of  his  mouth,  heaved  as  one  his  big 


The  Scorn  of  Women  281 
shoulders  and  his  indecision,  and  glared  appealingly 
at  the  two  women. 

"  I  beg  pardon,  just  a  moment,  but  may  I  speak 
first  with  Mr.  Vanderlip  ?  "  Mrs.  Eppingwell's 
voice,  though  flute-like  and  low,  predicated  will 
in  its  every  cadence. 

The  man  looked  his  gratitude.  He,  at  least,  was 
willing  enough. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  from  Freda.  "There  isn't 
time.  He  must  come  at  once."  The  conven- 
tional phrases  dropped  easily  from  her  lips,  but  she 
could  not  forbear  to  smile  inwardly  at  their  inad- 
equacy and  weakness.  She  would  much  rather 
have  shrieked. 

u  But,  Miss  Moloof,  who  are  you  that  you  may 
possess  yourself  of  Mr.  Vanderlip  and  command 
his  actions  ? " 

Whereupon    relief  brightened    his    face,    and    the 
man  beamed  his  approval.     Trust  Mrs.  Epping- 
well  to  drag  him  clear.     Freda  had  met  her  match 
this  time. 
"I  —  I  — "  Freda  hesitated,  and   then  her  fem- 


282         The  Scorn  of  Women 

inine  mind  putting  on  its  harness  —  "  and  who  are 
you  to  ask  this  question  ? " 
"I  ?     I  am  Mrs.  Eppingwell,  and —  " 
"  There  !  "  the  other  broke  in  sharply.     ct  You  are 
the  wife  of  a  captain,  who  is  therefore  your  hus- 
band.    I   am  only  a  dancing  girl.     What  do  you 
with  this  man  ?  " 

"  Such  unprecedented  behavior !  "  Mrs.  McFee 
ruffled  herself  and  cleared  for  action,  but  Mrs. 
Eppingwell  shut  her  mouth  with  a  look  and  devel- 
oped a  new  attack. 

u  Since  Miss  Moloof  appears  to  hold  claims  upon 
you,  Mr.  Vanderlip,  and  is  in  too  great  haste  to 
grant  me  a  few  seconds  of  your  time,  1  am  forced 
to  appeal  directly  to  you.  May  I  speak  with  you, 
alone,  and  now  ?  " 

Mrs.  McFee's  jaws  brought  together  with  a  snap. 
That  settled  the  disgraceful  situation. 
"  Why,   er  —  that  is,  certainly,"   the   man    stam- 
mered.    "  Of  course,  of  course,"   growing  more 
effusive  at  the  prospect  of  deliverance. 
Men  are  only  gregarious  vertebrates,  domesticated 


The  Scorn  of  Women          283 

and  evolved,  and  the  chances  are  large  that  it  was 
because  the  Greek  girl  had  in  her  time  dealt  with 
wilder  masculine  beasts  of  the  human  sort;  for 
she  turned  upon  the  man  with  hell's  tides  aflood 
in  her  blazing  eyes,  much  as  a  bespangled  lady 
upon  a  lion  which  has  suddenly  imbibed  the  per- 
nicious theory  that  he  is  a  free  agent.  The  beast 
in  him  fawned  to  the  lash. 

"  That  is  to  say,  ah,  afterward.  To-morrow,  Mrs. 
Eppingwell ;  yes,  to-morrow.  That  is  what  I 
meant."  He  solaced  himself  with  the  fact,  should 
he  remain,  that  more  embarrassment  awaited. 
Also,  he  had  an  engagement  which  he  must  keep 
shortly,  down  by  the  water-hole  off  the  hospital. 
Ye  gods !  he  had  never  given  Freda  credit ! 
Was  n  't  she  magnificent ! 
"  I  '11  thank  you  for  my  mask,  Mrs.  McFee." 
That  lady,  for  the  nonce  speechless,  turned  over 
the  article  in  question. 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Moloof."     Mrs.    Eppingwell 
was  royal  even  in  defeat. 
Freda    reciprocated,    though    barely    downing    the 


284         The  Scorn  of  Women 

impulse  to  clasp  the  other's  knees  and  beg  for- 
giveness, —  no,  not  forgiveness,  but  something, 
she  knew  not  what,  but  which  she  none  the  less 
greatly  desired. 

The  man  was  for  her  taking  his  arm  ;  but  she  had 
made  her  kill  in  the  midst  of  the  pack,  and  that 
which  led  kings  to  drag  their  vanquished  at  the 
chariot-tail,  led  her  toward  the  door  alone,  Floyd 
Vanderlip  close  at  heel  and  striving  to  re-establish 
his  mental  equilibrium. 

v 

It  was  bitter  cold.  As  the  trail  wound,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  brought  them  to  the  dancer's  cabin,  by 
which  time  her  moist  breath  had  coated  her  face 
frostily,  while  his  had  massed  his  heavy  mustache 
till  conversation  was  painful.  By  the  greenish 
light  of  the  aurora  borealis,  the  quicksilver  showed 
itself  frozen  hard  in  the  bulb  of  the  thermometer 
which  hung  outside  the  door.  A  thousand  dogs, 
in  pitiful  chorus,  wailed  their  ancient  wrongs  and 
claimed  mercy  from  the  unheeding  stars.  Not  a 


The  Scorn  of  Women  285 
breath  of  air  was  moving.  For  them  there  was 
no  shelter  from  the  cold,  no  shrewd  crawling  to 
leeward  in  snug  nooks.  The  frost  was  every- 
where, and  they  lay  in  the  open,  ever  and  anon 
stretching  their  trail-stiffened  muscles  and  lifting 
the  long  wolf-howl. 

They  did  not  talk  at  first,  the  man  and  the 
woman.  While  the  maid  helped  Freda  off  with 
her  wraps,  Floyd  Vanderlip  replenished  the  fire  ; 
and  by  the  time  the  maid  had  withdrawn  to  an 
inner  room,  his  head  over  the  stove,  he  was  busily 
thawing  out  his  burdened  upper  lip.  After  that 
he  rolled  a  cigarette  and  watched  her  lazily  through 
the  fragrant  eddies.  She  stole  a  glance  at  the 
clock.  It  lacked  half  an  hour  of  midnight. 
How  was  she  to  hold  him  ?  Was  he  angry  for 
that  which  she  had  done  ?  What  was  his  mood  ? 
What  mood  of  hers  could  meet  his  best  ?  Not 
that  she  doubted  herself.  No,  no.  Hold  him  she 
could,  if  need  be  at  pistol  point,  till  Sitka 
Charley's  work  was  done,  and  Devereaux's  too. 
There  were  many  ways,  and  with  her  knowledge 


286  The  Scorn  of  Women 
of  this  her  contempt  for  the  man  increased.  As 
she  leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  a  fleeting  vision 
of  her  own  girlhood,  with  its  mournful  climacteric 
and  tragic  ebb,  was  vouchsafed  her,  and  for  the 
moment  she  was  minded  to  read  him  a  lesson  from 
it.  God  !  it  must  be  less  than  human  brute  who 
could  not  be  held  by  such  a  tale,  told  as  she  could 
tell  it,  but  —  bah !  He  was  not  worth  it,  nor 
worth  the  pain  to  her.  The  candle  was  positioned 
just  right,  and  even  as  she  thought  of  these  things 
sacredly  shameful  to  her,  he  was  pleasuring  in  the 
transparent  pinkiness  of  her  ear.  She  noted  his 
eye,  took  the  cue,  and  turned  her  head  till  the 
clean  profile  of  the  face  was  presented.  Not  the 
least  was  that  profile  among  her  virtues.  She  could 
not  help  the  lines  upon  which  she  had  been  builded, 
and  they  were  very  good;  but  she  had  long  since 
learned  those  lines,  and  though  little  they  needed, 
was  not  above  advantaging  them  to  the  best  of  her 
ability.  The  candle  began  to  flicker.  She  could 
not  do  anything  ungracefully,  but  that  did  not  pre- 
vent her  improving  upon  nature  a  bit,  when  she 


The  Scorn  of  Women          287 

reached  forth  and  deftly  snuffed  the  red  wick  from 
the  midst  of  the  yellow  flame.  Again  she  rested 
head  on  hand,  this  time  regarding  the  man 
thoughtfully,  and  any  man  is  pleased  when  thus 
regarded  by  a  pretty  woman. 
She  was  in  little  haste  to  begin.  If  dalliance  were 
to  his  liking,  it  was  to  hers.  To  him  it  was  very 
comfortable,  soothing  his  lungs  with  nicotine  and 
gazing  upon  her.  It  was  snug  and  -warm  here, 
while  down  by  the  water-hole  began  a  trail  which 
he  would  soon  be  hitting  through  the  chilly  hours. 
He  felt  he  ought  to  be  angry  with  Freda  for  the 
scene  she  had  created,  but  somehow  he  did  n't  feel 
a  bit  wrathful.  Like  as  not  there  would  n't  have 
been  any  scene  if  it  had  n't  been  for  that  McFee 
woman.  If  he  were  the  Governor,  he  would  put  a 
poll  tax  of  a  hundred  ounces  a  quarter  upon  her 
and  her  kind  and  all  gospel  sharks  and  sky  pilots. 
And  certainly  Freda  had  behaved  very  ladylike, — 
held  her  own  with  Mrs.  Eppingwell  besides. 
Never  gave  the  girl  credit  for  the  grit.  He  looked 
lingeringly  over  her,  coming  back  now  and  again 


288          The  Scorn  of  Women 

to  the  eyes,  behind  the  deep  earnestness  of  which 
he  could  not  guess  lay  concealed  a  deeper  sneer. 
And,  Jove,  was  n't  she  well  put  up !  Wonder 
why  she  looked  at  him  so  ?  Did  she  want  to 
marry  him,  too  ?  Like  as  not ;  but  she  was  n't 
the  only  one.  Her  looks  were  in  her  favor, 
were  n't  they  ?  And  young — younger  than  Loraine 
Lisznayi.  She  could  n't  be  more  than  twenty- 
three  or  four,  twenty-five  at  most.  And  she  'd 
never  get  stout.  Anybody  could  guess  that  the 
first  time.  He  could  n't  say  it  of  Loraine,  though. 
She  certainly  had  put  on  flesh  since  the  day  she 
served  as  model.  Huh  !  once  he  got  her  on  trail 
he  'd  take  it  off.  Put  her  on  the  snowshoes  to  break 
ahead  of  the  dogs.  Never  knew  it  to  fail,  yet.  But 
his  thought  leaped  ahead  to  the  palace  under  the 
lazy  Mediterranean  sky  —  and  how  would  it  be 
with  Loraine  then  ?  No  frost,  no  trail,  no  famine 
now  and  again  to  cheer  the  monotony,  and  she 
getting  older  and  piling  it  on  with  every  sunrise. 
While  this  girl  Freda  —  he  sighed  his  uncon- 
scious regret  that  he  had  missed  being  born 


The  Scorn  of  Women  289 
under  the  flag  of  the  Turk,  and  came  back  to 
Alaska. 

"  Well  ?  "  Both  hands  of  the  clock  pointed  per- 
pendicularly to  midnight,  and  it  was  high  time  he 
was  getting  down  to  the  water-hole. 
"  Oh  !  "  Freda  started,  and  she  did  it  prettily,  de- 
lighting him  as  his  fellows  have  ever  been  delighted 
by  their  womenkind.  When  a  man  is  made  to 
believe  that  a  woman,  looking  upon  him  thought- 
fully, has  lost  herself  in  meditation  over  him,  that 
man  needs  be  an  extremely  cold-blooded  individual 
in  order  to  trim  his  sheets,  set  a  lookout,  and  steer 
clear. 

"  I  was  just  wondering  what  you  wanted  to  see 
me  about,"  he  explained,  drawing  his  chair  up  to 
hers  by  the  table. 

"  Floyd,"  she  looked  him  steadily  in  the  eyes,  "  I 
am  tired  of  the  whole  business.  I  want  to  go 
away.  I  can't  live  it  out  here  till  the  river 
breaks.  If  I  try,  I'll  die.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I 
want  to  quit  it  all  and  go  away,  and  I  want  to  do 


290          The  Scorn  of  Women 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mute  appeal  upon  the  back 
of  his,  which  turned  over  and  became  a  prison. 
Another  one,  he  thought,  just  throwing  herself  at 
him.  Guess  it  would  n't  hurt  Loraine  to  cool  her 
'  feet  by  the  water-hole  a  little  longer. 
"  Well  ?  "  This  time  from  Freda,  but  softly  and 
anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  say,"  he  hastened  to 
answer,  adding  to  himself  that  it  was  coming 
along  quicker  than  he  had  expected.  "Nothing 
I  'd  like  better,  Freda.  You  know  that  well 
enough."  He  pressed  her  hand,  palm  to  palm. 
She  nodded.  Could  she  wonder  that  she  despised 
the  breed  ? 

"But  you  see,  I  —  I'm  engaged.  Of  course  you 
know  that.  And  the  girl 's  coming  into  the  coun- 
try to  marry  me.  Don't  know  what  was  up  with 
me  when  I  asked  her,  but  it  was  a  long  while  back, 
and  I  was  all-fired  young." 

"  I  want  to  go  away,  out  of  the  land,  anywhere," 
she  went  on,  disregarding  the  obstacle  he  had 
reared  up  and  apologized  for.  "  I  have  been 


The  Scorn  of  Women          291 

running  over  the  men  I  know  and  reached  the 
conclusion  that  —  that  —  " 
"  I  was  the  likeliest  of  the  lot  ?  " 
She  smiled  her  gratitude  for  his  having  saved  her 
the  embarrassment  of  confession.  He  drew  her 
head  against  his  shoulder  with  the  free  hand,  and 
somehow  the  scent  of  her  hair  got  into  his  nostrils. 
Then  he  discovered  that  a  common  pulse  throbbed, 
throbbed,  throbbed,  where  their  palms  were  in  con- 
tact. This  phenomenon  is  easily  comprehensible 
from  a  physiological  standpoint,  but  to  the  man  who 
makes  the  discovery  for  the  first  time,  it  is  a  most 
wonderful  thing.  Floyd  Vanderlip  had  caressed 
more  shovel-handles  than  women's  hands  in  his 
time,  so  this  was  an  experience  quite  new  and 
delightfully  strange.  And  when  Freda  turned  her 
head  against  his  shoulder,  her  hair  brushing  his 
cheek  till  his  eyes  met  hers,  full  and  at  close 
range,  luminously  soft,  ay,  and  tender  —  why, 
whose  fault  was  it  that  he  lost  his  grip  utterly  ? 
False  to  Flossie,  why  not  to  Loraine?  Even  if 
the  women  did  keep  bothering  him,  that  was  no 


292          The  Scorn  of  Women 

reason   he  should   make   up  his   mind  in  a  hurry. 

Why,  he  had  slathers  of  money,  and  Freda  was 

just  the  girl  to  grace  it.     A  wife  she  'd  make  him 

for  other  men  to  envy.     But  go  slow.     He  must 

be  cautious. 

"  You  don't  happen  to  care  for  palaces,  do  you  ?  " 

he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  I  had  a  hankering  after  them  myself,  till  I 

got    to    thinking,  a  while  back,    and    I  've  about 

sized  it  up  that  one  'd  get  fat  living  in  palaces,  and 

soft  and  lazy." 

"  Yes,   it 's   nice   for  a  time,  but   you  soon  grow 

tired   of   it,  I   imagine,"   she  hastened  to  reassure 

him.     "  The   world    is    good,   but  life   should  be 

many-sided.     Rough  and  knock  about  for  a  while, 

and   then   rest  up  somewhere.     Off  to  the  South 

Seas  on  a  yacht,  then  a  nibble  of  Paris  ;  a  winter 

in  South  America  and   a   summer  in  Norway ;  a 

few  months  in  England  — ' 

"  Good  society  ?  " 

"  Most   certainly  —  the   best ;    and  then,   heigho  ! 


The  Scorn  of  Women         293 

for  the  dogs  and  sleds  and  the  Hudson  Bay  Coun- 
try. Change,  you  know*  A  strong  man  like 
you,  full  of  vitality  and  go,  could  not  possibly 
stand  a  palace  for  a  year.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
effeminate  men,  but  you  were  n't  made  for  such  a 
life.  You  are  masculine,  intensely  masculine." 
«  Think  so  ?  " 

u  It  does  not  require  thinking.  I  know.  Have 
you  ever  noticed  that  it  was  easy  to  make  women 
care  for  you  ?  " 

His  dubious  innocence  was  superb. 
u  It  is  very  easy.  And  why  ?  Because  you  are 
masculine.  You  strike  the  deepest  chords  of  a 
woman's  heart.  You  are  something  to  cling  to, 
—  big-muscled,  strong,  and  brave.  In  short,  be- 
cause you  are  a  man." 

She  shot  a  glance  at  the  clock.  It  was  half  after  the 
hour.  She  had  given  a  margin  of  thirty  minutes  to 
Sitka  Charley  ;  and  it  did  not  matter,  now,  when 
Devereaux  arrived.  Her  work  was  done.  She 
lifted  her  head,  laughed  her  genuine  mirth,  slipped 
her  hand  clear,  and  rising  to  her  feet  called  the  maid. 


294          The  Scorn  of  Women 

"Alice,  help  Mr.  Vanderlip  on  with  his  parka. 
His  mittens  are  on  the  sill  by  the  stove." 
The  man  could  not  understand. 
"Let  me  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  Floyd. 
Your  time  was  invaluable  to  me,  and  it  was  indeed 
good  of  you.  The  turning  to  the  left,  as  you 
leave  the  cabin,  leads  the  quickest  to  the  water- 
hole.  Good-night.  I  am  going  to  bed." 
Floyd  Vanderlip  employed  strong  words  to  ex- 
press his  perplexity  and  disappointment.  Alice 
did  not  like  to  hear  men  swear,  so  dropped  his 
parka  on  the  floor  and  tossed  his  mittens  on  top  of 
it.  Then  he  made  a  break  for  Freda,  and  she 
ruined  her  retreat  to  the  inner  room  by  tripping 
over  the  parka.  He  brought  her  up  standing  with 
a  rude  grip  on  the  wrist.  But  she  only  laughed. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  men.  Had  they  not  wrought 
their  worst  with  her,  and  did  she  not  still 
endure  ? 

w  Don't  be  rough,"  she  said  finally.  "  On  second 
thought,"  here  she  looked  at  his  detaining  hand, 
u  I  *ve  decided  not  to  go  to  bed  yet  a  while.  Do 


The  Scorn  of  Women         295 

sit  down  and  be  comfortable  instead  of  ridiculous. 

Any  questions  ?  " 

"Yes,   my  lady,  and  reckoning,   too."      He   still 

kept  his  hold.     "  What  do  you  know  about  the 

water-hole  ?     What  did  you  mean  by  —  no,  never 

mind.      One  question  at  a  time." 

"  Oh,    nothing    much.       Sitka   Charley    had    an 

appointment  there  with  somebody  you  may  know, 

and  not  being  anxious  for  a  man  of  your  known 

charm  to  be  present,  fell  back  upon  me  to  kindly 

help  him.     That 's  all.     They  're  off  now,  and  a 

good  half  hour  ago." 

"  Where  ?     Down  river  and  without  me  ?     And 

he  an  Indian  ! " 

u  There 's    no    accounting    for   taste,  you   know, 

especially  in  a  woman." 

"  But  how  do  I  stand  in  this  deal  ?     I  've  lost  four 

thousand  dollars'  worth  of  dogs  and  a  tidy  bit  of  a 

woman,    and    nothing  to   show    for    it.       Except 

you,"  he  added   as   an  afterthought,  "and  cheap 

you  are  at  the  price." 

Freda  shrugged  her  shoulders. 


296          The  Scorn  of  Women 
u  You  might  as  well  get  ready.     I  'm  going  out  to 
borrow  a  couple  of  teams  of  dogs,  and  we  '11  start 
in  as  many  hours." 

u  I  am  very  sorry,  but  I  'm  going  to  bed." 
"  You  '11  pack  if  you  know  what 's  good  for  you. 
Go  to  bed,  or  not,  when   I  get  my  dogs  outside, 
so   help  me,  onto  the  sled  you  go.     Mebbe  you 
fooled  with  me,  but  I  '11  just  see  your  bluff  and 
take  you  in  earnest.      Hear  me  ?  " 
He  closed  on  her  wrist  till  it  hurt,  but  on  her  lips  a 
smile  was  growing,  and  she  seemed  to  listen  intently 
to  some  outside  sound.     There  was   a  jingle  of 
dog  bells,  and  a  man's  voice  crying  "  Haw  !  "  as  a 
sled  took  the  turning  and  drew  up  at  the  cabin. 
"  Now  will  you  let  me  go  to  bed  ? " 
As  Freda  spoke  she  threw  open  the  door.     Into 
the  warm  room  rushed  the  frost,  and  on  the  thresh- 
old, garbed   in  trail-worn   furs,   knee-deep  in  the 
swirling  vapor,  against  a  background   of  flaming 
borealis,   a  woman  hesitated.      She    removed    her 
nose-trap  and  stood  blinking  blindly  in  the  white 
candlelight.     Floyd  Vanderlip  stumbled  forward. 


The  Scorn  of  Women         297 

"  Floyd !  "  she  cried,  relieved  and  glad,  and  met 
him  with  a  tired  bound. 

What  could  he  but  kiss  the  armful  of  furs  ? 
And  a  pretty  armful  it  was,  nestling  against  him 
wearily,  but  happy. 

"  It  was  good  of  you,"  spoke  the  armful,  "  to  send 
Mr.  Devereaux  with  fresh  dogs  after  me,  else  I 
would  not  have  been  in  till  to-morrow." 
The  man  looked  blankly  across  at  Freda,  then  the 
light  breaking  in  upon  him,  "  And  was  n't  it  good 
of  Devereaux  to  go  ?  " 

"  Could  n't  wait  a  bit  longer,  could  you,  dear  ? " 
Flossie  snuggled  closer. 

"  Well,  I  was  getting  sort  of  impatient,"  he  con- 
fessed glibly,  at  the  same  time  drawing  her  up  till 
her  feet  left  the  floor,  and  getting  outside  the 
door. 

That  same  night  an  inexplicable  thing  happened  to 
the  Reverend  James  Brown,  missionary,  who 
lived  among  the  natives  several  miles  down  the 
Yukon  and  saw  to  it  that  the  trails  they  trod  led 
to  the  white  man's  paradise.  He  was  roused  from 


298          The  Scorn  of  Women 

his  sleep  by  a  strange  Indian,  who  gave  into  his 
charge  not  only  the  soul  but  the  body  of  a  woman, 
and  having  done  this  drove  quickly  away.  This 
woman  was  heavy,  and  handsome,  and  angry,  and 
in  her  wrath  unclean  words  fell  from  her  mouth. 
This  shocked  the  worthy  man,  but  he  was  yet 
young  and  her  presence  would  have  been  perni- 
cious (in  the  simple  eyes  of  his  flock),  had  she  not 
struck  out  on  foot  for  Dawson  with  the  first  gray 
of  dawn. 

The  shock  to  Dawson  came  many  days  later,  when 
the  summer  had  come  and  the  population  honored 
a  certain  royal  lady  at  Windsor  by  lining  the 
Yukon's  bank  and  watching  Sitka  Charley  rise  up 
with  flashing  paddle  and  drive  the  first  canoe 
across  the  line.  On  this  day  of  the  races,  Mrs. 
Eppingwell,  who  had  learned  and  unlearned 
numerous  things,  saw  Freda  for  the  first  time  since 
the  night  of  the  ball.  "  Publicly,  mind  you,"  as 
Mrs.  McFee  expressed  it,  u  without  regard  or 
respect  for  the  morals  of  the  community,"  she 
went  up  to  the  dancer  and  held  out  her  hand.  At 


The  Scorn  of  Women         299 

first,  it  is  remembered  by  those  who  saw,  the  girl 
shrank  back,  then  words  passed  between  the  two, 
and  Freda,  great  Freda,  broke  down  and  wept  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  captain's  wife.  It  was  not 
given  to  Dawson  to  know  why  Mrs.  Eppingwell 
should  crave  forgiveness  of  a  Greek  dancing  girl, 
but  she  did  it  publicly,  and  it  was  unseemly. 
It  were  well  not  to  forget  Mrs.  McFee.  She 
took  a  cabin  passage  on  the  first  steamer  going  out. 
She  also  took  with  her  a  theory  which  she  had 
achieved  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  long  dark 
nights ;  and  it  is  her  conviction  that  the  North- 
land is  unregenerate  because  it  is  so  cold  there. 
Fear  of  hell-fire  cannot  be  bred  in  an  ice-box. 
This  may  appear  dogmatic,  but  it  is  Mrs. 
McFee's  theory. 


BOOK 


